SUN  AND  SHADOW 
IN  SPAIN 


MAUD  HOWE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


V 


SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 


THE  ARAB  QUARTER,  TANGIERS. 


SUN  AND  SHADOW 
IN  SPAIN 


BY 

MAUD  HOWE 

AUTHOR  OP  "ROMA  BEATA,"  "Two  IN  ITALY."  ETC. 


WITH    PICTURES   FROM   PHOTOGRAPHS 
AND    ILLUSTRATIONS   IN   COLOR 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1908 


Copyright,  1908, 
BY  LITTLE,  BBOWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 


Published  November,  1908 


Chr  QJubor 

HOSTON.  U.  8.  A. 


College 
library 

DP 


To 

ISABEL  ANDERSON 
THIS  BOOK 

is 
AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


1164751 


CHILD'S  PLAY 

ON  the  silver  sands  of  First  Beach  in  the  Island 
of  Rhode  Island,  children  were  at  play  digging  foun~ 
dations,  raising  fortifications,  laying  out  the  parks 
and  streets  of  a  city.  They  worked  long  and  hard; 
time  was  short,  and  the  tide  was  coming  in.  Each 
wave,  as  it  hissed  and  broke  upon  the  beach,  sent 
its  thin  line  of  foam  a  little  nearer  the  brave  outer 
wall  of  the  town.  Then  came  the  inevitable  inun- 
dation; the  children  shrieked  with  glee  as  the  city 
wall  crumbled,  the  church  steeple  toppled  down, 
the  courthouse  collapsed.  When  nothing  of  the 
thriving  sand  city  remained,  save  its  trees  and 
flowers, — floating  bunches  of  red  and  green  seaweed 
—  the  children,  tired  with  much  digging,  sat  down 
and  looked  across  the  water. 

'  What   is    over    there? "    asked    the   youngest, 
pointing  an  uncertain  finger  to  the  East. 

"  That  is  the  Atlantic  Ocean,"  answered  the 
eldest,  "  the  nearest  land  is  the  coast  of  Spain." 

*  When  I  grow  up  I  shall  go  there"  said  the 
youngest,  "  to  see  what  Spain  is  like." 

After  many  years  the  child  sailed  across  the  At- 
lantic from  the  New  World  to  the  Old,  passed  be- 
tween the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  through  the  "  southern 
entrance  of  the  ocean,"  and  landed  on  the  Rock  of 


Gibraltar.  Sitting  there  by  the  lighthouse  ofEuropa 
Point,  and  looking  back  across  the  waste  of  waters, 
the  child  had  a  vision  of  the  city  on  the  sands. 
This  Rock,  this  last  spur  of  Europe,  how  many  sand 
cities  has  it  seen  washed  away  by  the  tides  of  time? 
The  Calpe  of  the  Phoenicians,  the  Jebel  al  Tarac 
of  the  Arabs,  the  Gibraltar  of  the  Spaniards.  Where 
Queen  Adelaide's  lighthouse  now  sends  its  ray  of 
light  out  into  the  darkness,  the  famous  shrine  of  the 
Virgen  de  Europa  once  stood.  Here,  once  upon  a 
time,  Jupiter,  in  the  shape  of  a  milk-white  bull, 
plunged  into  the  sea  with  the  lovely  Europa  on  his 
back,  and  swam  with  her  to  Crete,  where  she  became 
the  mother  of  Minos,  whose  ruined  palace  has  just 
been  discovered  in  that  wonderful  island  of  Crete. 
The  land,  more  steadfast  than  the  sea,  keeps  in  its 
breast  some  of  the  things  men  prize  most.  In  the 
palace  of  Minos  they  found  a  small,  finely  modeled, 
gold  figure  of  a  man  with  a  bull's  head,  cast  in 
memory  of  the  son  of  Jupiter  and  the  lovely  Europa. 

As  the  stars  pricked  out  from  the  blue,  the  child 
perceived  they  were  the  stars  she  knew  at  home,  and 
that  the  constellation  of  Taurus  was  visible, — 
Taurus,  the  bull,  still  the  animal  of  worship  and  of 
sacrifice  in  the  Peninsula. 

"  When  I  have  seen  what  Spain  is  like,  I  will  tell 
the  other  children  about  it"  said  the  child;  then  she 
took  out  the  guidebook  and  opened  the  map. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.    THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE     .      .  1 

II.    A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA 27 

III.  THE  WHITE  VEIL 58 

IV.  THE  BLACK  VEIL 82 

V.    SEVILLE  FAIR        109 

VI.    A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE       ....  136 

VII.    CORDOVA 166 

VIII.    GRANADA         195 

IX.    TANGIERS         217 

X.    MADRID 251 

XI.    THE  PRADO 279 

XII.    CARNIVAL         300 

XIII.  TOLEDO 315 

XIV.  THE  BRIDE  COMES 343 

XV.    THE  KING'S  WEDDING     ....  364 

XVI.  WEDDING  GUESTS 373 

XVII.  HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  393 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  ARAB  QUARTER,  TANGIERS.      COLORED  FRONTISPIECE 

PAGE 

OUR  LADY  OF  O.,  SEVILLE        58 

SEVILLE  CATHEDRAL         64 

ENTRANCE  TO  COURT  OF  ORANGES,  SEVILLE  ...       68 
THE  SCULPTOR  MARTINEZ  MONTANES 72 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 
PORTRAIT  OF  MONTANES'  SON 72 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 
PORTRAIT  OF  PHILIP  II.     Coello 85 

In  the  possession  of  John  Elliott. 
PORTRAIT  OF  VELASQUEZ,  BY  HIMSELF.     DETAIL  OF 

"  LAS  MENINAS  " 96 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 
PORTRAIT  OF  His  WIFE.     Velasquez 96 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 
THE  GIRALDA,  SEVILLE 107 

BULL-FlGHTERS 122 

SPANISH  GYPSIES 122 

ST.  JOSEPH  AND  THE  INFANT  JESUS.     Murillo     .       .     164 

In  the  Provincial  Museum,  Seville. 
THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL.    Murillo         164 

In  the  Cathedral,  Seville. 


xii  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  MOSQUE,  CORDOVA 167 

THE  MOSQUE,  CORDOVA 188 

LA  PUERTA  DEL  SOL,  TOLEDO        188 

GATE  OF  JUSTICE,  ALHAMBRA.     In  color   .      .      .      .  195 

COURT  OF  LIONS,  THE  ALHAMBRA 196 

GARDEN  OF  THE  GENERALIFE,  GRANADA  ....  196 

WINDOW,  TOWER  OF  CAPTIVE,  ALHAMBRA      .      .      .  199 

GYPSIES  OF  GRANADA 203 

LA  PUERTO  DEL  VENO,  GRANADA 207 

A  COURT  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 207 

RETABLO,    CARVED    IN    HIGH    AND    Low    RELIEF. 

Roldan 211 

MOORISH  COLUMNS  IN  THE  ALHAMBRA      .      .      .      .214 

TANGIERS.     In  color 218 

STREET  IN  TANGIERS        226 

SPANISH  PEASANTS 232 

ALI  AND  ZULEIKA 232 

DETAIL  FROM"  THE  MAIDS  OF  HONOR."     Velasquez   .  259 
In  the  Prado  Museum. 

DETAIL  FROM  "  THE  SURRENDER  OF  BREDA."     Ve- 
lasquez        279 

In  the  Prado  Museum 

THE  TIPPLERS.     Velasquez 282 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 

THE  DUKE  OF  OLIVARES.  Velasquez 285 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 

VENUS  AND  CUPID.  Velasquez 288 

National  Museum. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS          xiii 

DON  BALTAZAR  CARLOS.     Velasquez 291 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 
DETAIL  FROM  "  MOSES."    Murillo 300 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 
DETAIL  FROM  "  MOSES."    Murillo 308 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 

TOLEDO  BY  MOONLIGHT.     In  color 326 

DETAIL  FROM  "  THE    BURIAL    OF    COUNT    ORGAZ." 

Greco 341 

VlLLEGAS   IN   HIS   STUDIO 376 

THE  SPINNERS.     Velasquez          379 

In  the  Prado  Museum. 
THE  DOGARESSA.     Villegas         394 

In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Larz  Anderson. 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  MATADOR.     Villegas      .      .      .     398 

In  the  possession  of  the  artist. 
IMPERIO.     Villegas 408 

In  the  possession  of  Miss  Dorothy  Whitney. 


SUN  AND  SHADOW 
SPAIN 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE 

IF  you  will  look  at  the  general  map  of  Spain  and 
Portugal,  you  will  see  that  the  outlines  of  the 
Peninsula  suggest  the  head  of  a  man  —  a  broad, 
square  head,  with  a  high  forehead  and  plenty  of 
room  for  a  large  brain.  The  profile,  lying  sharply 
cut  on  the  blue  Atlantic,  shows  a  crest  of  disordered 
hair,  a  slightly  swelling  forehead,  a  long,  sensitive, 
aristocratic  nose  with  a  sharply  cut  nostril,  firm 
lips  set  close  together,  a  fine  chin  tapering  to  a  small 
pointed  beard,  a  slight  fulness  under  the  chin; 
the  throat,  set  well  back  and  surrounded  by  a  blue 
collar — the  Straits  of  Gibraltar — joins  the  head  to 
the  shoulders  —  the  continent  of  Africa.  The 
more  you  look  at  the  face,  the  more  certain  you 
become  that  it  is  a  familiar  one,  that  it  is  the  face 
of  one  you  hold  dear,  till  at  last  complete  recogni- 
tion flashes  upon  you;  it  is  the  face  of  Don  Quixote 


2          SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

de  la  Mancha!  Look  again;  it  is  a  face  such  as 
Velasquez  painted,  not  once,  but  many  times;  it  is 
the  typical  Spanish  face,  proud,  high-bred,  reserved. 

So  you  need  not  land  alone  and  unwelcomed 
upon  the  shore  of  fabled  Hispagna,  now  looming 
dim  and  blue  upon  the  horizon,  now  growing  dis- 
tinct and  green.  Two  great  spirits,  Cervantes  and 
Velasquez,  come  to  meet  you!  Their  hands  are 
stretched  out  to  you;  if  you  so  elect,  they  will  walk 
with  you  in  all  your  wanderings,  and  with  their 
help  you  shall  know  Spain. 

Gibraltar,  a  lion  couchant,  head  on  paws,  fronts 
the  sea.  Cross  the  bay  from  Algeciras,  the  lion 
rears  its  head  —  a  lion  no  longer  —  the  pillar  of 
the  coast  of  Europe,  blue  at  first,  then  purple; 
when  you  are  close  in  its  shadow  you  look  up  at  a 
grim  gray  mountain  towering  above  you.  It  greets 
you  like  an  old  friend.  You  have  known  it  under 
many  names;  first  as  Calpe  under  its  first  master, 
Hercules,  for  that  glorious  old  fellow,  the  first 
"  Great  African  Traveler,"  was  here.  Wishing 
to  show  other  travelers  who  should  come  after 
that  the  "  inner  seas,"  where  it  was  safe  to  sail, 
ended  here,  he  took  up  a  mountain  and  tore  it  in 
two  to  make  the  bounds;  half  he  set  down  in  Africa, 
on  the  south,  half  in  Europe,  on  the  north.  These 
are  the  Columns  of  Hercules;  the  African  column  is 
Abyle;  the  European,  Calpe. 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE         3 

"  Ne  plus  ultra"  said  Hercules,  as  he  wrapped 
his  lion's  skin  about  him  and  set  sail  for  Libya  to 
call  on  Atlas.  Every  time  you  write  the  sign  for 
the  dollar  ($)  you  draw  the  Columns  of  Hercules 
and  the  scroll  for  his  parting  words,  "  Ne  plus 
ultra" 

Carthage  was  here!  The  poor  Carthaginians 
built  a  tower  on  Calpe,  to  watch  for  the  dreaded 
Roman  galleys  sweeping  down  from  Ostia,  while  in 
Rome's  senate  implacable  Cato  thundered  his 
eternal  "  Delenda  est  Carthago"  Of  course  the 
Romans  were  here, —  it  is  impossible  to  escape 
them;  wherever  you  travel  in  Europe  or  Africa  you 
are  always  meeting  those  grave  ghosts ! 

Tarik  was  here;  he  and  his  Berbers,  sailing  over 
from  Morocco,  landed  on  Calpe,  and  built  a  mag- 
nificent castle  fortress  to  protect  their  retreat  and 
keep  open  the  way  back  to  Africa.  Moors  and 
Berbers  made  a  long  stay  in  Europe;  they  held  the 
Rock  seven  hundred  years,  until  Moor  and  Maho- 
met were  driven  out  by  Ferdinand  and  Isabel, —  a 
service  Spain  holds  the  Christian  world  has  too 
soon  forgotten.  A  pitiful  flying  remnant  of  the 
Moors  of  Granada  took  ship  at  Gibraltar  and 
sailed  back  to  Morocco,  leaving  behind  them  the 
imperishable  Legacy  of  the  Moor,  taking  with  them 
the  keys  of  their  houses  in  that  lost  paradise, 
Granada.  Since  Tarik  landed,  the  Rock  has  stood 


4          SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

fourteen  sieges,  has  passed  from  master  to  master, 
but  this  is  still  the  Hill  of  Tarik  (Jebel  Tarik), 
though  we  pronounce  it  Gibraltar. 

So,  coming  after  Hercules,  Carthage,  Rome, 
Tarik,  we  are  here!  We  landed  at  night.  As  we 
passed  down  the  steamer's  companionway  to  the 
tug,  the  Kaiser  roared  a  hoarse  farewell,  her  screw 
beat  the  "  inner  sea  "  to  a  white  lather.  From 
the  upper  deck  a  girl's  handkerchief  fluttered, 
a  man's  voice  cried  "  Good  luck!"  Two  thousand 
Italian  steerage  passengers,  the  menace  and  amuse- 
ment of  the  voyage,  chaffed  and  laughed  at  us  from 
the  lower  deck.  For  nine  days  the  steamer 
Kaiser,  sailing  on  even  keel,  had  been  all  our 
world;  a  creature-comfortable  world,  with  only  too 
much  beef,  beer,  and  skittles. 

"  There  are  no  boats  but  the  German  —  except 
a  few  of  the  English  —  fit  to  cross  the  Atlantic," 
a  fat  Hanoverian  drummer  said  at  dinner,  that  last 
evening  on  board;  "  Germans  and  English  are  the 
only  sailors." 

Don  Jaime,  the  Andalusian,  who  sat  opposite, 
looked  at  him. 

"  C7aro,"  he  assented,  graciously,  in  Spanish,"  but 
— do  you  happen  to  know  how  many  Germans  and 
English  Columbus  had  with  him  on  his  caravel  ?  " 

The  Hanoverian  only  grunted,  like  the  pig  he 
was. 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE         5 

The  tug  sheered  away;  we  looked  up  from  our 
dancing  cockle-shell  to  the  Kaiser,  looming  vast 
above  us,  shutting  out  the  stars.  The  glare  of  her 
lights,  the  throb  of  her  engines  were  still  the  all- 
important  facts  of  the  universe,  until —  a  long  finger 
of  light  stretched  out  from  Tarik's  Hill  and 
touched  us. 

"  You  see  ?  "  said  a  voice  in  the  dark  beside  us, 
"  the  searchlight!  Gibraltar  never  sleeps." 

The  searchlight  faded ,  the  tender  turned  her  nose  to 
shore.  The  Kaiser,  a  little  floating  bit  of  Germany, 
was  left  behind;  before  us  towered  England,  a  mighty 
Rock  hung  from  peak  to  base  with  chains  of  dia- 
mond lights.  The  tender  drew  alongside  the  Old 
Mole.  At  the  gate  a  young  English  sergeant  in 
a  smart  uniform  looked  us  over. 

"  Are  you  a  British  subject,  sir?  "  he  said  to  J., 
the  first  man  ashore.  J.  said  he  was. 

:*  Pass  in,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant;  then  to  me: 
"  British  subject,  marm  ?  " 

"  I  am  an  American  -        "I  began. 

"  One  shilling,  if  you  please,  marm;  after  gun- 
fire only  subjects  may  enter  Gibraltar  without — 

'  That  is  to  say,"  I  explained,  "  I  am  the  wife  of 
this  gentleman;  you  may  consider  me  a  —  a 
British  sub  - 

'  Very  good,  marm,  certainly,"  murmured  the 
sergeant,  consolingly;  "  pass  in." 


6          SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"So  an  American  birthright  is  only  worth  one 
shilling  ?  "  J.  jeered,  and  the  international  incident 
was  closed,  for  the  moment. 

We  slept  at  the  Hotel  Cecil,  a  comfortable  house, 
with  Spanish  waiters  and  Hispano-Anglo  fare. 
At  breakfast  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  pretty 
young  officer,  who  wore  his  watch  in  a  leather 
bracelet  on  his  wrist.  He  laughed  at  our  impatience 
to  have  done  with  tea  and  marmalade  and  be  off 
to  see  the  sights. 

"  Not  much  to  see  in  Gib,"  he  said,  "  a  beastly 
place!  There's  the  Trafalgar  Cemetery,  if  you 
care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  See  that  old  chap  with 
the  beard  ?  If  you  want  a  guide  he's  the  best. 
He's  lying  in  wait  for  you,  a  real  Rock  Scorpion; 
don't  let  him  sting  you  on  the  '  tips.'  He's  a 
native;  must  have  come  into  the  world  before  the 
law  forbidding  aliens  to  be  born  in  Gibraltar." 

We  thought  that  law  must  be  hard  to  enforce. 
He  said  it  was,  but  that  there  was  so  little  living 
room  on  the  Rock  "  they  "  were  very  strict  about 
it.  All  ladies,  except  the  wives  of  British  subjects, 
must  cross  over  to  the  main  land  before  the  birth 
of  their  children.  Spain,  he  said,  liked  the  law, 
because  in  the  old  days  it  had  sometimes  happened 
that  sons  of  Spaniards  born  on  the  Rock  had 
refused  to  serve  in  the  Spanish  army,  claiming  to  be 
British  subjects. 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE         7 

We  asked  how  long  strangers  might  stay  in 
Gibraltar.  He  said  that  generally  speaking  they 
might  stay  as  long  as  they  wished.  The  hotel 
proprietor  would  get  us  the  necessary  permit;  it 
might  be  extended  for  ten  days.  The  Governor, 
Sir  George  White  (he  who  was  in  command  in 
Ladysmith  when  the  garrison  was  relieved),  was 
very  exact  about  such  matters. 

Again  commending  us  to  Old  Scorp,  our  friend 
with  the  watch  bracelet  left  us,  and  we  went  out 
"for  to  admire  and  to  see."  We  avoided  Old  Scorp, 
a  little  gray  creeping  man  with  shabby  European 
clothes,  but  he  saluted  us  with  the  air  of  one  who 
bides  his  time. 

First  we  explored  the  North  Town,  crouching  at 
the  Rock's  base.  Waterport  Street,  the  main 
artery  of  trade,  lies  at  the  lowest  level,  the  town 
rising  in  a  series  of  terraces  two  hundred  feet  above. 
Houses,  churches,  hospitals,  barracks,  stables, 
all  built  of  a  uniform  gray  limestone,  seem  to  have 
been  honeycombed  out  of  the  Rock.  The  names 
at  the  street  corners  have  a  bold  British  military 
flavor;  Prince  Edward's  Ramp,  Bomb  House  Lane, 
Devil's  Gap  Steps,  Victualling  House  Lane,  Ragged 
Staff  Stairs.  The  shops  are  small  and  stuffy,  with 
stale  meagre  wares;  the  high-sounding  names  over 
their  doors,  Moorish,  Spanish,  Jewish  names, 
such  as  Alcantara,  Barabiche,  Vallerinos,  Monte- 
griffos,  show  in  whose  hands  the  trade  of  Gibraltar 


8          SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

has  fallen.  There  are  many  names  beginning  with 
Ben,  such  as  Beneluz  and  Beneliel.  I  believe 
that  all  the  "  Bens  "  are  of  Moorish  descent:  I 
have  known  a  good  many  such,  their  dark,  im- 
penetrable eyes,  their  skilful  hands,  the  frequent 
touch  of  genius  they  show,  are  a  part  of  the 
Moor's  Legacy. 

It  was  still  early  morning;  the  sky  was  a  vault 
of  blue  fire,  the  air  was  keen  with  the  salt  and  sea- 
weed of  the  Mediterranean.  The  orange  trees  in 
the  garden  of  the  old  Franciscan  convent  —  now 
•the  Governor's  house  —  were  covered  with  fruit 
and  blossoms;  there  was  a  sound  of  bugles,  the 
tramp  of  a  regiment  in  Commercial  Square;  the 
soft  cracked  bells  of  the  old  cathedral  clanged  the 
hour;  from  far  away,  where  the  gunners  were  at 
practice,  came  the  deep  boom  of  cannon.  Color, 
life,  movement  all  around  us !  This  was  no  time  to 
dream,  to  remember,  to  entertain  ghosts;  breathless 
we  looked  through  the  kaleidoscope  to-day  at  the 
gay  little  pieces  flickering  with  the  pulse  of  time ! 

North  Town  has  the  most  variegated  population 
in  Europe;  to  match  it  one  must  cross  the  Straits 
to  Tangiers.  A  British  officer  passed  on  a  small 
milk-white  stallion ;  an  Ethiopian,  with  gold  earrings, 
and  a  beauty  line  gashed  on  either  cheek;  a  pair  of 
sharp-eyed  Jewish  children,  books  under  arm,  on 
their  way  to  school;  an  Andalusian  widow,  draped 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE         9 

like  a  Tanagra  figurine  with  soft  dusky  veils  hang- 
ing to  her  shoe;  another  officer  of  higher  rank,  a 
blond  man  with  a  face  like  a  mask,  who  gave  us  one 
quick  challenge  of  the  eye  as  he  went  his  way  —  and 
I  was  aware  that  I  was  a  guest,  while  he  was  at 
home,  a  master  in  his  own  house.  He  was  followed 
by  two  ladies,  his  British  wife  and  daughter,  all 
fresh  and  shining  with  soap  and  energy.  Both 
were  Saxons,  with  hair  like  spun  gold  and  calm 
blue  eyes;  they  wore  London  clothes,  and  drove  an 
English  cob  in  an  Irish  jaunting  car.  They  were 
at  home,  too,  and  looked  as  if  the  earth  belonged  to 
them.  There  were  many  soldiers  loafing  in  twos 
and  threes,  marching  in  files,  walking  singly  —  all 
with  a  jauntiness,  a  buoyancy,  that  no  other  mere 
mortal  men  possess.  Some  of  them  —  oh,  joy !  — 
wore  real  uniforms  with  red  coats;  dull  clod-colored 
khaki  is  good  enough  for  war,  in  peace  there  is  no 
excuse  for  it. 

The  dash  of  winter  in  the  air  that  was  as  the 
elixir  of  life  to  the  English,  making  their  horses 
prance,  their  cheeks  glow,  their  eyes  sparkle, 
affected  the  other  inhabitants  differently;  the 
Spaniards  looked  pale,  the  Moors  ashen.  We 
met  Don  Jaime,  black  sombrero  pulled  over  the 
eyes,  black  capa  thrown  over  the  shoulder,  toga- 
fashion,  muffling  mouth  and  chin  and  showing  an 
amber  plush  lining.  The  Don  uncovered  with  a 


10        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

noble  gesture,  but  we  did  not  stop  to  speak  to  him, 
he  was  in  such  evident  terror  of  taking  cold.  There 
were  frigid  tears  in  the  almond  eyes  of  Mr.  Pohoo- 
mull  as  he  stood  at  the  door  of  the  Indo-Persian 
Bazaar  inviting  us  to  enter.  Though  he  wore  a 
lovely  gray  embroidered  cashmere  cap  and  a 
Persian  lamb  coat,  his  teeth  chattered.  We  lin- 
gered somewhat,  beguiled  by  his  Benares  trays, 
Burmese  silver,  Persian  carpets,  ivory  elephants, 
and  were  only  saved  from  bankruptcy  by  the  vision 
of  a  figure  in  the  street,  more  truly  Oriental  than 
anything  in  Mr.  Pohoomull's  shop.  A  tall,  bronzed 
Moor  in  a  green  turban,  a  pink  kaftan,  yellow 
slippers,  and  a  big  hairy  brown  sulham,  drawn 
over  his  head  and  falling  to  his  knees,  walked 
slowly  down  the  middle  of  the  road,  driving  before 
him  with  a  rod  as  long  as  himself  a  flock  of  green 
and  bronze  turkeys.  We  followed  to  the  Moorish 
market,  where  he  entered  into  discussion  with  an- 
other Morisco  in  a  white  sulham  and  red  morocco 
slippers,  presumably  touching  the  price  of  turkeys. 
As  an  excuse  to  linger  near,  we  bought  pistachio 
nuts  in  a  fresh  lettuce  leaf,  dates  from  the  desert 
on  their  yellow  stalks,  golden  apples  of  Hesperides 
-  they  called  them  tangerines  —  with  dark, 
glossy  leaves.  The  market  was  noisy  with  the 
bickering  of  poultry,  pigeons,  and  netted  quails  in 
wicker  baskets.  In  the  English  market  on  the 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE       11 

other  side  of  the  way,  we  bought  for  half  a  peseta 
violets,  roses,  and  splendid  Tyrian  purple  bourgan- 
villia.  The  flower  sellers,  a  group  of  withered 
women  sitting  on  the  ground,  looked  like  the  Fates. 
The  fish  market  was  a  picture.  The  fish  of  the 
Mediterranean  seem  brighter  colored  than  other  fish. 
Like  wet  jewels  the  red  mullet,  like  silver  the 
turbot,  like  many-colored  enamels  the  big  variegated 
conger  eels  the  Romans  liked  so  well.  Gibraltar, 
which  produces  nothing,  is  splendidly  victualled. 
The  beef  comes  from  Morocco,  the  vegetables 
from  Spain,  the  fruit  from  every  Mediterranean 
port.  At  the  fruit  stalls  were  bunches  of  Spanish 
grapes,  long,  purple,  white,  hanging  thick  over- 
head, a  background  for  Barbary  baskets  filled  with 
citrons,  persimmons,  cocoanuts,  apples,  and  pears. 
In  the  foreground  were  heaps  of  black  olives  and 
smooth  green  melons,  the  latter  a  cross  between 
watermelon  and  cantaloupe.  The  Spaniards 
know  how  to  keep  them  fresh  half  the  winter. 
The  vegetable  stalls  were  quite  as  handsome  in 
their  way,  the  color  used  skillfully  in  broad  masses. 
Deep  chrome  gourds,  violet  eggplant,  a  long  cane 
basket  of  vermilion  tomatoes  and  gray-green 
artichokes ;  the  beauty  of  color  so  enthralled  us  that 
we  were  not  quick  enough  in  making  way  for  a 
majestic  British  matron,  followed  by  a  neat  Spanish 
maid.  The  lady  must  have  been  at  least  a  colonel's 


12        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

wife  —  if  such  go  to  market  —  for  she  looked 
through  us,  without  seeing  us,  as  if  we  had  been 
so  much  glass.  To  make  amends,  the  little  servant 
gave  us  soft  welcoming  glances,  but  we  felt  abashed 
and  went  sadly  away.  As  we  left  the  market,  we 
saw  our  young  officer  of  the  watch  bracelet  sniffing 
at  the  carcass  of  a  mighty  new-killed  pig  —  then 
we  knew  that  he  was  of  the  "  commissariat." 

Outside  the  market  we  met  the  turkey-herd 
again;  he  had  sold  no  turkeys,  but  added  a  pair 
of  white  ones  to  his  flock.  As  we  stood  admiring 
him,  Patsy  joined  us,  kodak  in  hand. 

"  I  must  snap  that  Moor,"  he  said;   "  please 
stand  before  me.     If  he  sees  me  he  will  be  fright- 
ened and  think  I  mean  to  do  him  a  mischief." 
Patsy  adjusted  his  camera;  he  was  on  the  point  of 
turning  the  button  when  a  policeman  interfered: 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,  it's  against  the  rules  to  photo- 
graph the  fortifications." 

"  But  I  wasn't,"  Patsy  explained.  "  I  was  only 
taking  a  shot  at  that  old  boy  with  the  turkeys." 

The  man  pointed  to  the  bastion  behind  the 
Moor;  it  would  certainly  have  come  within  the 
kodak's  focus.  We  tried  to  comfort  Patsy  by 
reminding  him  that  Gibraltar  was  a  fortress,  that 
we  were  here  on  sufferance;  but  he  was  much 
chagrined  and  kept  repeating  that  he  was  not  a 
spy.  At  that  moment  of  discomfiture  we  heard  a 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE        13 

voice,  deep  as  an  organ  note,  behind  us,  rumbling 
out  the  words : 

"  I  am  the  book." 

We  turned  and  saw  Old  Scorp. 

"  I  am  the  Century" 

"  Looks  old  enough  to  be,"  murmured  Patsy. 

"  I  am  Harper's  Magazine." 

"  Indeed  ?     You  scarcely  look  it,"  said  J. 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  "  I  cried,  "  he  is  the  guide,  he 
has  been  mentioned  in  Harper  and  the  Century." 

"  Take  him  along!  "  begged  Patsy.  "  He 
knows  the  ropes;  he'll  keep  us  from  getting  into 
any  more  scrapes." 

Old  Scorp  had  crawled  in  our  wake  all  the 
morning;  his  time  had  come;  he  claimed  us  for  his 
own.  From  that  moment  till  we  left  the  Rock, 
we  were  scarcely  out  of  his  company,  except  when 
asleep  or  at  meals.  When  not  busy  guiding  tra- 
velers, he  acted  as  Moorish  interpreter  of  the 
law  court.  A  little  gliding  man,  like  a  composite  of 
all  the  peoples  who  have  held  the  Rock,  his  clothes 
were  English,  his  manners  Spanish,  his  fanatical 
eyes  were  Berber,  his  energy,  in  spite  of  his  age, 
ancient  Roman,  his  keenness  as  to  pounds,  shillings, 
and  pence  was  Phoenician,  his  manner  of  cracking 
a  nut  —  where  had  I  seen  that  action  ?  In  the 
monkey  cage  at  the  Zoo. 

The  original  inhabitants  of  Gibraltar,  a  tribe  of 


14        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

half-tame,  tailless  apes,  still  hold  the  steep  west 
front  of  the  Rock.  They  are  descended  from  those 
apes  of  Tarshish  sent  to  Solomon,  together  with 
peacocks,  ivory,  and  gold,  every  three  years. 
They  live  on  the  summit,  where  the  sweet  palmetto 
and  the  prickly  pear  grow.  In  summer,  when 
man  and  monkey  grill  upon  the  arid  Rock,  the 
soldiers  at  the  Signal  Station  save  water  for  their 
poor  relations,  and  look  the  other  way  when  the 
simian  troop  goes  on  a  raid  to  rob  the  Governor's 
fruit  garden ;  they  even  keep  a  sort  of  parish  register 
of  monkey  births  and  deaths.  How  these  blue 
Barbary  apes,  the  only  African  monkeys  in  Europe, 
ever  found  their  way  here,  is  a  mystery,  like  the 
presence  of  the  Basques  in  the  Pyrenees. 

"  I  wonder  if  they  were  here  before  the  con- 
vulsion of  nature  that  tore  apart  the  coasts  of 
Africa  and  Europe,"  Patsy  ruminated. 

Why  not  say,  when  Hercules  tore  them  apart? 
It's  so  much  prettier! 

From  the  market-place  we  went  to  the  parade- 
ground,  a  quadrangle  surrounded  by  solid  stone 
barracks,  where  a  squad  of  the  King's  Own  were 
drilling.  Inside  the  barracks  a  military  band 
played  Sousa's  "  Stars  and  Stripes  Forever." 
The  King's  Own  were  brisk,  young,  and  fresh- 
looking  newcomers,  with  the  beef  and  beer  of  Old 
England  still  in  their  blood;  they  will  not  have 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE        15 

such  pretty  complexions  when  they  leave,  after  three 
summers  on  the  Rock.  The  climate  that  we  found 
delicious  in  December  must  be  terrific  in  July. 
Scorp  admitted  that  it  was  a  trifle  warm,  though 
it  suited  him;  we  could  fancy  him  basking  on  the 
Rock,  as  if  he  belonged  in  one  of  its  crevices.  At 
luncheon  we  asked  Bracelet  how  he  found  the 
summer  here.  From  what  he  said,  Gibraltar 
cannot  be  a  nice  place  when  the  black  levanter 
blows,  the  dark  cloud  cap  settles  on  the  summit, 
the  clamminess  comes  into  the  air,  and  the  stifling 
east  wind  takes  the  heart  out  of  a  man  and  sets 
his  nerves  jangling,  till  he  feels  like  Prometheus 
chained  to  the  burning  Rock.  They  make  out 
very  well  in  the  winter,  Bracelet  said,  with  the  war- 
ships coming  and  going,  people  from  home  running 
down  to  the  Hotel  Maria  Cristina  over  in  Al- 
geciras,  and  occasional  shooting  trips  in  the  Atlas 
Mountains.  Of  course,  the  great  institution  is 
the  Calpe  Hunt. 

"  Fox  hunting  here  ?  "  Patsy  interrupted. 

"  No,  no,  over  there."  Bracelet  nodded  towards 
the  narrow  ribbon  of  sand  that  ties  the  Rock  to 
Spain.  "In  the  old  days,  though,  the  place  swarmed 
with  foxes.  Rock  wood  and  Ranter,  the  first 
couple  of  hounds  an  old  parson  had  out  from 
England,  gave  'em  some  rattling  good  runs  up 
the  face  of  the  Rock." 


16        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

More  ghosts  —  the  ghosts  of  the  first  two  fox- 
hounds whose  names,  Rockwood  and  Ranter, 
are  a  matter  of  history.  Never  was  such  a  place 
for  ghosts  as  Mons  Calpe! 

Patsy    catechized   Bracelet   about   the   hunting 
half  through   luncheon;   that   was   not   fair.     He 
asked  more  than  his  share  of  questions;  when  it 
comes  to  dogs,  horses,  or  sport  of  any  kind,  men 
never  are  fair,  they  are  so  greedy.     I  had  a  hun- 
dred questions  I  wanted  to  ask,  but  I  had  to  listen 
and  pretend  to  be  interested.     From  November, 
after  the  rains  are  over,  till  March,  when  the  ground 
is  too  dry  to  carry  the  scent,  they  have  two  joyous 
runs  a  week.     It's  the  only  thing  that  makes  life 
here  possible.     The  ride  to  the  meets  is  almost 
always  along  the  Spanish  beach;  some  of  them  are 
a  goodish   distance;   Long  Stables,   for  instance, 
is  thirteen  miles  away,  Almoraima  is  twelve.     We 
could  imagine  the  relief  of  a  gallop  in  the  salt  air 
after  being  cooped  up   on  the  Rock.     There  is 
every    sort    of    country, —  thick    woods,    coverts, 
crags;    only,    Bracelet    complained,    no   jumping, 
because   there   are   no   fences   or   hedges   in   this 
benighted    land.     Everybody    hunts,    of    course. 
An  old  gentleman,  a  sort  of  Nestor  of  the  chase, 
died  as  he  had  lived,  following  the  hounds.     He 
was  drowned  at  Washerwoman's  Ford  the  other 
day,  on  his  way  home  from  the  meet.     Quite  a 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE        17 

decent  exit,  wasn't  it  ?  To  die  in  the  saddle  at  the 
end  of  a  day's  hunting.  He  was  a  goodish  age, 
too,  turned  seventy-six. 

We  had  one  disappointment:  demanding  to  be 
taken  to  St.  Michael's  Cave,  we  learned  that  it 
was  no  longer  shown.  Scorp,  who  in  his  far-off 
youth  had  known  it  well,  was  easily  led  to  talk 
of  the  mysterious  cave.  I  was  the  only  one  of  the 
party  who  had  grace  to  listen.  The  others  were 
welcome  to  monopolize  Bracelet  —  young,  hand- 
some, full  of  delicious  insularity;  I  preferred  the 
little  old  gray  man.  There  are  many  impetuous 
merry  lads;  there  is  but  one  Rock  Scorpion! 
There  was  something  reptilian  about  the  man. 
His  language,  full  of  Oriental  allegory,  moved 
sluggishly  along,  then  broke  into  sudden  bursts 
of  antediluvian  slang,  and  on  every  possible  occa- 
sion stung  us  with  the  wrords,  "  You  tip  the  hand." 

"  'Metuendus  acumine  caude,'  Ovid  says  of  the 
scorpion,"  Patsy  quoted,  "  or,  as  one  might  say, 
Fearful  with  the  sting  of  his  tip!  " 

According  to  Old  Scorp,  the  entrance  to  St. 
Michael's  Cave  is  now  one  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  about  two  thirds  up  the  face  of  the  moun- 
tain. Once  upon  a  time  the  sea  was  level  with  the 
cave.  Had  not  he  and  his  brother,  when  they 
were  boys,  found  fossil  shells  there,  and  the  re- 
mains of  a  sea  beach  outside  ?  The  entrance  was 


18        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

low,  he  remembered,  but  inside  it  was  big  as  the 
Mosque  of  Cordova.  Its  wonderful  stalactite 
columns,  fifty  feet  high,  looked  like  yellow  alabas- 
ter; there  were  pointed  arches  springing  from 
column  to  column.  Lighted  up  with  blue  fire, 
as  he  had  once  seen  the  cave,  it  was  a  sight  that, 
man  or  boy,  he  had  never  seen  equalled.  Except 
for  its  being  so  dark,  those  who  lived  here  had  a 
fine  commodious  dwelling.  Yes,  men  have  lived, 
fought,  and  died  in  the  great  cave,  and  left  their 
flint  knives,  their  stone  axes,  and  their  bones  to 
tell  the  tale.  Women  have  lived  and  worked 
there;  they  left  their  necklaces,  their  anklets,  their 
bone  needles,  their  household  pottery  behind  them. 
There  have  been  feasts  here,  for  amphorae  with 
traces  of  wine  have  been  found.  There  were  other 
caves  —  oh,  many!  sea  caves  and  land  caves; 
some  "  professors  "  say  that  the  old  name  Calpe 
means  caved  mountain.  Whether  or  not  that  is 
true,  Scorp,  of  his  own  knowledge,  assured  us  that 
the  Rock  is  full  of  secret  caverns.  As  if  these  were 
not  enough,  the  English  are  always  burrowing 
and  tunnelling.  They  have  dug  three  tunnels 
under  the  Rock;  in  one  they  found  what  is  more 
precious  than  gold,  good  water.  No,  we  might  not 
see  the  tunnels,  not  even  the  last  of  the  smaller 
caves  —  the  secrets  of  the  mountain  are  jealously 
guarded. 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE        19 

Listening  to  the  old  man's  talk,  we  climbed  a 
street  of  stairs  cutting  directly  through  a  tangle  of 
narrow  alleys  where  Jews  and  other  aliens  live, 
to  the  upper  level  of  North  Town,  where  we  found 
the  Church  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  its  doors  hospita- 
bly open.  As  it  was  the  only  door  in  Gibraltar, 
except  the  Cecil's,  that  had  not  been  shut  and 
barred  against  us,  we  went  in.  The  smell  of  the 
incense,  the  red  light  of  the  candles,  was  pleasantly 
familiar;  the  statues  of  saints  and  Virgin  greeted 
us  like  old  friends. 

"  I  haf  a  friend  in  Brooklyn,  Unity  States," 
said  a  voice  beside  us.  "  He  send  me  weekly 
paper.  I  hope  you  know  my  friend  —  his  name 

is .  Mebbe  he  spoke  with  you  of  Father  Jims, 

of  the  Sacred  Heart  ?  " 

Father  Jims  was  young  and  soft-eyed,  with  a 
face  such  as  Murillo  painted  in  his  "St.  Joseph 
and  the  Holy  Child."  He  was  so  sure  we  had 
come  to  find  him  out,  with  some  message  from 
his  friend,  that  it  went  to  our  hearts  to  undeceive 
him.  He  said  he  meant  shortly  to  go  to  Brooklyn; 
from  what  his  friend  wrote,  there  was  a  rare  field 
for  missionary  work!  Father  Jims  was  a  Catalan; 
his  eyes  burned  with  a  zeal  that  augured  well  for 
his  mission  among  the  heathen  of  Brooklyn.  He 
showed  us  the  modest  treasures  of  his  church,  and 
presented  us  with  a  picture  of  St.  Bernard,  the 


20        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

patron  of  Gibraltar.  As  we  parted  we  gave  him 
a  little  money  for  his  poor;  he  took  it  with  a  radiant 
smile  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  Among  all  the  tre- 
mendous impressions  we  brought  away  from 
Gibraltar,  the  smile  of  the  little  Spanish  servant 
maid  in  the  market-place,  and  the  smile  of  the  poor 
Catalan  priest  in  the  church,  are  the  kindest,  and 
will  perhaps  remain  with  us  the  longest. 

Near  the  church  is  the  fine  new  hospital;  an 
inscription  tells  that  Lord  Napier,  of  Magdala, 
laid  the  foundation  stone. 

In  Lord  Napier's  hospital  there  are  women 
nurses.  Teaching  and  nursing  nuns  are  in  charge 
of  several  charitable  institutions,  and  in  the  post 
office  reigns  a  postmistress;  so,  though  Gibraltar 
is  the  most  mannish,  English-speaking  place  I 
know,  there  is  plenty  of  civic  and  charitable  work 
for  women.  It  was  strange  to  learn  that  the  place 
is  a  colony  and  a  port,  as  well  as  a  fortress.  On 
this  tiny  speck  of  earth  you  can  find  all  the  complex 
machinery  of  civil,  military,  and  colonial  existence, 
as  neatly  organized  as  life  in  an  ant-hill.  As  to 
the  port,  it  is  now  of  consequence  as  a  coaling 
station  only.  Prosaic  enough,  compared  to  the 
palmy  days  when  it  was  the  first  smugglers' 
headquarters  of  the  Mediterranean!  Tobacco  is 
still  smuggled  into  Spain,  where  it  is  a  government 
monopoly,  and  is,  consequently,  very  bad  and 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE        21 

very  dear.  The  smuggling  is  largely  carried  on 
by  dogs.  The  poor  innocents  are  taken  out  in  a 
boat  at  night  from  Gibraltar;  when  near  the  Span- 
ish coast,  small  water-tight  casks  filled  with  con- 
traband tobacco  are  fastened  on  either  side  of 
them,  they  are  put  overboard  and  swim  to  land. 
They  learn  not  to  bark  or  make  a  noise,  but  to 
scramble  silently  ashore  into  the  arms  of  their 
contrabandista  partners,  just  as  in  the  days  of  the 
Deerfield  Massacre,  babies  in  New  England  were 
taught  not  to  cry  on  account  of  the  Indians. 

After  luncheon  we  went  to  see  the  "  Galleries." 
Our  Scorp  convoyed  us;  Gunner  Wilkinson,  a  lean 
old  war  dog,  received  us  and  led  the  way  into  a 
dim  passage,  with  sanded  floor  and  whitewashed 
roof,  tunnelled  out  of  the  bowels  of  the  Rock. 
The  narrow  gallery  ascends  at  an  easy  slope,  now 
and  again  widening  out  into  a  small  chamber,  as 
a  Roman  catacomb  expands  into  the  chapel  of 
Christian  martyr  or  saint.  Only  here,  in  this 
aerial  catacomb,  instead  of  the  statue  of  a  saint, 
stands  a  great  gun,  its  black  nozzle  poking  through 
a  loophole.  The  Gunner  explained  the  working, 
patting  the  gun  as  one  pats  a  favorite  horse.  At 
the  lightest  touch  the  monster  swung  smoothly  on 
its  swivel,  and  the  loophole  was  free  for  us  to  look 
out  at  the  magnificent  view.  Below  us  was 
Gibraltar  Bay,  the  cork  woods  of  Algeciras,  and 


22        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

the  blue  line  of  Sierras  beyond.  We  were  in  no 
hurry  to  leave  the  gallery,  as  we  should  probably 
never  be  here  again.  Gunner  Wilkinson  refused 
a  shilling,  but  accepted  a  cigar;  and  finally  under- 
standing that  we  really  were  interested  in  his  won- 
derful Cyclopean  galleries,  he  unbent  and  gossiped 
about  them  in  a  friendly  way. 

During  the  "  Great  Siege,"  a  non-commissioned 
officer,  Sergeant  Ince,  heard  the  commandant, 
General  Eliott,  say  that  he  would  give  a  thousand 
dollars  to  be  able  to  drop  shells  on  the  enemy  from 
a  certain  point  where  the  Rock's  face  was  a  sheer 
precipice.  The  practical  genius  of  the  plain 
soldier  found  out  the  way.  If  there  was  no  place 
for  the  guns  on  the  Rock,  make  a  place  for  them 
in  the  Rock.  So  the  famous  Rock  Batteries,  at 
Ince's  suggestion,  were  blasted  out  of  the  living 
cliffs.  They  had  done  great  service  in  their  day, 
but  now,  frankly,  this  cannon,  that  to  me  looked 
so  deadly,  was  quite  out  of  date.  The  real  guns 
were  mounted  —  elsewhere!  Yes,  La  Vieja  (the 
old  dog)  had  a  new  set  of  teeth;  she  could  bite  now 
as  well  as  bark.  Beyond  this  the  Gunner  would 
say  nothing  of  the  modern  defences,  nor  of  those 
secret  forbidden  parts  of  "  Gib  "  I  longed  to  see. 
His  talk  was  all  of  old  wars,  old  heroes,  of  Ince, 
who  rose  from  the  ranks  and  was  made  an  ensign 
of  the  Royal  Garrison  Battalion  as  a  reward  for  his 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE       23 

batteries.  One  day,  when  he  was  an  aged  man, 
riding  to  his  work  on  an  ancient  nag,  he  met  the 
Governor,  the  Duke  of  Kent,  the  father  of  "  the 
Queen/' 

"  That  horse  is  too  old  for  you,  Mr.  Ince,"  said 
the  Duke. 

"  I  like  to  ride  easy,  your  Royal  Highness,"  Ince 
answered  meekly. 

"  Right,"  said  the  Duke,  "  but  you  deserve  a 
better  mount." 

A  few  days  later  the  Duke  sent  Ince  a  fiery 
young  horse,  far  too  spirited  for  the  old  overseer 
to  manage.  The  next  time  the  Duke  met  Ince  he 
was  riding  his  shambling  nag.  The  Duke  stopped 
and  asked  where  the  new  horse  was.  Ince  con- 
fessed that  it  was  more  than  he  could  manage,  and 
begged  leave  to  send  it  back  to  the  Duke's  stable. 

"  No,  no,  Overseer,  if  you  can't  ride  him,  put 
him  in  your  pocket,"  said  the  Duke  handsomely. 
Ince  took  the  hint  and  sold  the  horse  for  a  good 
price. 

Gunner  Wilkinson  talked  of  Nelson's  visit  and 
the  banquet  given  him  in  St.  George's  Hall,  the 
magnificent  rock  chamber  at  the  end  of  the  gal- 
leries, as  if  it  had  all  happened  last  year,  and 
first,  last,  and  always  he  talked  of  the  great  siege. 

A  red  flash,  a  puff  of  white  smoke,  a  dull  roar 
told  that  a  yacht  had  just  entered  the  harbor. 


24        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

As  I  looked  through  the  narrow  loophole,  watching 
the  sailors  furl  the  sails,  I  glanced  across  the  bay 
to  the  cork  woods  of  Algeciras,  and  the  lower 
foothills  of  the  Sierras  —  and  again  I  remembered 
the  past.  This  is  the  thirteenth  of  April,  1783,  the 
great  day  of  the  "  Great  Siege,"  that  began  on  a 
September  morning  three  years  before,  when 
Mrs.  Skinner  touched  off  the  first  gun  of  the  de- 
fence to  General  Eliott's  signal,  "  Britons  strike 
home."  This  day,  the  allies  believe,  will  see  the 
obstinate  garrison  that  has  held  out  so  long, 
against  scurvy  and  starvation  within,  as  well  as  the 
enemy's  guns  without,  come  to  terms.  The  old 
General  who  has  lived  for  more  than  a  week  on 
four  ounces  of  rice  per  diem,  just  to  prove  how 
little  a  man  need  eat  to  live  and  fight,  will  hoist 
the  white  flag  before  evening  gunfire.  Down 
there  in  the  bay  lies  the  combined  fleet  of  France 
and  Spain,  forty-seven  "  sail  of  the  line" — real  line  of 
battleships,  with  white  figureheads  and  wings  and 
pleasant  windowed  balconies  astern,  and  nice  brass 
cannon  shining  through  long  rows  of  portholes. 
Alongside  these  three  deckers  and  frigates  are  the 
strangest  craft  Gibraltar  Bay  has  ever  seen  —  ten 
famous  unsubmergible,  incombustible,  floating 
batteries;  uncouth  monsters  with  bulging  sides 
padded  with  wet  sand,  and  hanging  roofs  covered 
with  damp  hides.  Those  Algeciras  hills  are 


THE  THORN  IN  SPAIN'S  SIDE        25 

crowded  with  spectators,  come  from  all  over  Spain, 
to  see  the  fall  of  Gibraltar.  For  eight  hours  the 
besiegers'  five  hundred  guns  roared  and  spat  fire 
and  shells,  and  the  garrison's  ninety  and  six 
answered  with  Boyd's  deadly  hot  shot.  The  bay 
was  a  gallant  sight  at  sunrise  —  who  would  have 
seen  it  at  evening  gunfire?  Not  the  people  who 
had  come  to  watch  the  great  victory;  they  melted 
away  from  the  hills  like  summer  snow,  for  the 
victory  was  to  the  "  old  dog!  "  The  indestructible 
floating  batteries  were  destroyed,  the  beautiful 
ships  sunk  or  in  flames,  their  sides  blackened, 
their  sails  tattered.  That  day's  fight  cost  the 
garrison  something  less  than  two  hundred  men, 
and  the  allies  more  than  two  thousand. 

"  Old  Eliott  stood  there  on  the  King's  Bastion 
during  the  fight,"  the  Gunner  said.  I  wondered 
if  he  had  shouted  the  slogun  of  his  people  in  the 
debatable  land.  The  Gunner  asked  what  that 
might  be.  I  gave  him  the  old  border  cry  of  the 
Black  Eliotts: 

"  My  name  is  little  Jock  Eliott,  and  wha'  daur 
meddle  wi'  me  ?  " 

Wilkinson,  chuckling  grimly,  repeated  it,  sur- 
mised that  "  per'aps  'ee  did,"  and  gave  this  parting 
anecdote : 

When,  after  peace  was  declared,  the  French 
commander,  Due  de  Crillon,  visited  Gibraltar, 


26        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Eliott  showed  him  Ince's  galleries.  De  Crillon 
called  the  attention  of  his  suite  with  these  words : 

"  Notice,  gentlemen,  that  these  works  are  worthy 
of  the  Romans." 

(Shade  of  Scipio  Af ricanus !  didst  hear  and  wert 
appeased  ?) 

While  in  the  Gunner's  company  we  heard  much 
rolling  of  drums  and  sounding  of  "  tuckets "; 
some  military  business  was  going  on  not  far  away. 
It  was  stirring  to  the  pulses,  and  made  us  feel 
martial  and  bloodthirsty.  We  parted  with  the 
Gunner  at  evening  gunfire;  when  we  shook  hands 
my  bones  crunched  in  his  mighty  grip,  but  I  be- 
lieve I  did  not  flinch.  We  marched  back  to  the 
hotel,  keeping  step  to  the  march  a  military  band 
was  playing  in  the  Alameda.  That  night,  just 
as  the  floor  of  my  room  at  the  Cecil  began  to  heave 
with  the  slow  even  roll  of  the  Kaiser,  a  strain  of 
sleepy  lullaby  music  melted  into  my  dream.  I 
roused  and  looked  at  the  watch.  It  was  ten 
o'clock;  the  bugler  at  the  barracks  was  playing 
"  taps  "  on  a  silver  bugle.  It  was  all  true!  We 
were  here,  sleeping  in  the  "  Key  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean! " 


II 

A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA 

DAWN  in  a  garden  of  Andalusia.  .  .  .  To  the 
south,  across  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  the 
faint  purple  outlines  of  the  Atlas  Mountains  mark 
the  mysterious  coast  of  Africa.  To  the  north, 
beyond  the  green  vega,  four  ranges  of  clear  cut 
Sierras  Gazoulos  rise,  one  behind  the  other,  from 
gray,  vaporous  valleys  of  mist.  The  only  sounds 
are  the  rhythmic  breaking  of  waves  on  the  beach; 
the  short  breathing  of  a  herd  of  goats  —  black, 
tawny,  and  white,  with  coarse  hair  and  fierce, 
yellow  eyes,  and  the  crisp  crunch,  crunch  of  their 
teeth  cropping  the  roadside  grass.  The  night 
flowers  hang  their  heads  and  go  to  sleep,  the  day 
flowers  lift  their  faces  to  the  sun;  the  smell 
of  heliotrope  drenched  in  dew  is  an  unforgetable 
thing.  Breakfast  is  memorable,  too;  dates  from 
Morocco,  and  rich  Spanish  coffee  flavored  with 
cinnamon,  served  under  an  arbor  of  Marechal 
Neil  roses. 

So  began  our  first  day  in  Spain,  at  a  place  the 


28         SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Romans  called  Portus  Albus,  and  the  Moors 
—  they  settled  here  soon  after  landing  on  Gibraltar, 
Jezirat-I-Kadra  —  "  the  green  island."  Can  you 
derive  the  modern  name  of  Algeciras  from  that? 
You  must.  Our  old  friend  Tarik  was  here, — 
witness  the  great  aqueduct  he  built,  that  still 
brings  Algeciras  his  royal  gift  of  water,  always 
the  legacy  of  Roman  or  of  Moor. 

To-day,  Gibraltar  is  England's  key  to  the 
Mediterranean;  yesterday,  Algeciras  was  the 
Moors'  key  to  Spain.  They  held  the  Peninsula 
seven  hundred  years,  think  of  it !  —  nearly  twice 
as  long  as  white  men  have  held  America;  then 
it  was  wrenched  from  them,  the  door  was  locked 
against  them.  Less  than  three  hundred  years 
ago  our  ancestors  landed  on  Plymouth  Rock, 
but  how  should  we,  in  New  England,  feel  if  the 
Indians,  the  Mexicans,  or  the  Canadians  rose  up 
and  drove  us  out  of  our  stately  cities,  our  green 
pastures,  our  fertile  wheat  fields?  The  Moors 
made  a  brave  stand  at  Algeciras  —  it  was  their 
last  ditch  —  and  put  up  a  good  fight  here.  In  the 
year  1344,  the  town  was  besieged  by  Alonzo  XI 
of  Castile,  with  the  help  of  crusaders  from  every 
part  of  Christendom.  The  siege  lasted  twenty 
months.  Chaucer,  writing  forty  years  later,  de- 
scribes a  true  knight  as  one  who  "  had  fought  at 
Algecir,"  as  we  might  say  of  one  of  Thermopylae's 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  29 

Three  Hundred  or  of  Balaclava's  Six  Hundred. 
In  1760,  four  hundred  years  afterwards,  the  Spanish 
King,  Charles  III,  rebuilt  and  fortified  the  place,  "to 
be  a  hornet's  nest  against  the  English."  For  one 
hundred  years  Gibraltar  and  Algeciras  —  now 
deadly  places,  both  of  them  bristling  with  guns, 
full  of  dynamite  —  have  glowered  at  each  other 
across  the  bay.  The  other  day  the  English  came 
again  to  Algeciras.  Armed  this  time  with  British 
capital,  they  have  built  one  of  the  hotels  of  the 
world  here,  and  called  it  the  Reina  Maria  Cristina, 
as  a  compliment  to  the  Spanish  Queen  Mother. 

"  We  did  not  expect  to  find  such  a  fine  hotel  in 
Spain,"  I  said  to  the  capable  English  manageress. 

"  Ah,  well!  we  hardly  count  this  as  Spain,  you 
know!  "  she  answered,  with  a  fine  insular  contempt 
for  all  things  "  foreign." 

"  She's  right !  "  cried  Patsy.  "  For  Dios.  Shall 
we  never  get  out  of  England  ?  "  and  willy-nilly 
he  carried  us  off  to  lunch  at  Don  Jaime's  fonda, 
in  the  old  part  of  the  town. 

The  Don  was  waiting  for  us  on  a  bench  outside 
the  inn  door,  smoking  his  inevitable  cigarette,  in 
the  soft  spring  air.  He  looked  a  little  bleary 
about  the  eyes,  as  if  he  had  not  had  enough  sleep. 

"  Don  Jaime  is  up  early  to-day  for  our  sake," 
Patsy  explained;  "  as  he  goes  to  bed  at  four  in  the 
morning,  he  does  not  usually  appear  before  two  in 
the  afternoon.'' 


30        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

*  The  morning  is  a  disease,"  said  the  Don. 
"  I  find  it  best  not  to  go  out  until  the  day  is  well 
aired." 

"  Please  observe,"  Patsy  interrupted,  "  that 
this  place  has  a  proper  odor  of  garlic;  at  last  we 
are  out  of  the  smell  of  English  roast  beef!  " 

The  Don  sighed.  "  Nevertheless,  I  comfortably 
recall  the  roast  beef  we  had  at  school  in 
Stoneyhurst,"  he  said;  "  it  was  rare,  with  plenty 
good,  red  gravy." 

'  That  was  all  right  in  England;  we're  in  An- 
dalusia now.  Let's  begin  with  an  o/Za,  then  a  dish 
of  rice,  saffron,  pimientos,  and  little  birds, —  and 
wine  from  that  fattest  wineskin.  I  counted  ten 
of  them  outside  in  the  road,  leaning  jovially  to- 
gether against  the  wall  of  the/owda." 

When  he  got  his  wine  from  the  "  fattest  wine- 
skin " — it  tasted  a  little  of  the  "  leather  botelle  "  — 
Patsy  raised  his  glass. 

'  We  will  drink,"  he  cried,  "  to  everything 
Spanish,  muchachas,  ollas,  dons,  torrones,  and 
fondas,  and  confusion  to  all  interlopers.  Isn't 
this  jolly  little  place  better  than  the  Maria  Cristina? 
Isn't  the  company  more  friendly  and  far  more 
diverting?  See  the  notary  and  the  doctor  at  the 
table  near  the  door;  at  the  next,  the  priest  and  the 
professor  (they're  both  taking  snuff);  that  fat, 
military  man  with  the  green  gloves  is  a  colonel 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  31 

of  infantry.  Those  swell  English  officers  you 
admired  so  much  at  the  Reina  Cristina  simply  own 
the  hotel!  We're  admitted  to  the  smoking  and 
billiard  rooms  purely  on  sufferance.  I  like  your 
inn  best,  Don  Jaime." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  Don,  "I  like  bath 
every  morning,  and  all  that  luxushness  when  I 
stayed  at  the  Reina,  though  it  was  much  pain  to 
put  on  cocktail  coat  every  night  for  dinner." 

"  Treasure  every  gem  of  speech  he  lets  fall," 
murmured  Patsy,  "  they  grow  rarer  —  don't  you 
notice  ?  —  as  his  English  comes  back  to  him." 

"He's  always  been  like  that,"  said  J.,  "it's  be- 
cause he  learned  English  when  he  was  young." 
Some  days  he  speaks  as  well  as  you  or  I,  then 
again  he  talks  a  hodge  podge  no  man  can  under- 
stand." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  wine,  Don  ? " 
cried  Patsy.  You  don't  like  it." 

*  Wine  is  not  agreeable  to  my  belly,"  said  the 
Don.  "I  will  take  to  keep  you  company,  un  poco 
de  ginebra,  de  campana,  with  much  water." 

'  You  must  not  expect  ice,"  Patsy  explained. 

'  You  will  not  hanker  for  it,"  said  the  Don, 
taking  a  clay  water  bottle  from  the  shelf  behind 
him.  '  This  alcarraza  is  —  how  you  say  ?  holey  — 
no,  porous,  keeps  water  as  cold  as  you  might 
drink  him,  by  evaporation."  He  poured  out 


32        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

the  water  and  put  the  alcarraza  back.  It  had  a 
rounded  bottom  and  could  not  stand  upright. 
The  Romans  used  the  same  kind  of  vessel;  you 
see  them  at  Pompeii.  They  were  made  in  this 
shape  because  they  were  used  to  pour  libations 
of  lustral  water  to  Vesta,  and  would  have  been 
defiled  if  they  had  been  set  down  on  the  ground. 

By  this  time  the  fruit  was  put  on  the  table. 
All  the  other  guests  had  left  the  room  except  the 
priest  and  the  professor,  who  were  playing  a  game 
of  dominoes.  A  large  melon  was  placed  before  J. 
He  looked  at  me  as  he  cut  it : 

'  You  remember  what  I  have  always  said  ? 
Till  you  come  to  Spain  it  is  impossible  to  know 
what  a  melon  can  be." 

:<  No  earthly  melon  can  taste  as  good  as  this  one 
smells,"  said  Patsy.  ;<  It  is  as  if  all  the  spices  of 
Arabia  had  been  let  loose  in  this  room!  " 

The  servants  had  withdrawn,  the  clatter  of  the 
dishes  had  ceased.  Some  one  opened  a  window; 
from  the  garden  came  the  music  of  a  guitar  played 
by  a  master  hand,  a  man's  voice  singing  a  song  of 
Andalusia : 

"  Me  han  dicho  que  tu  te  casas, 
y  asi  lo  dice  la  gente, 
todo  sera  en  un  dia 
tu  casamiento  y  mi  muerte" 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  33 

(They  have  told  me  thou  art  to  wed,  so  people 
say;  all  shall  be  in  one  day,  thy  marriage  and  my 
death.) 

Don  Jaime's  thimbleful  of  gin  and  his  two  cups 
of  black  coffee  —  he  ate  scarcely  anything —  had 
waked  him  up  wonderfully.  He  smoked,  with  my 
permission,  between  the  courses  throughout  lunch, 
flicking  the  ash  from  his  cigarette  with  the  phe- 
nomenally long  nail  of  his  little  finger;  his  hands 
were  white,  handsome,  and  exquisitely  kept. 
Lunch  over  and  the  serenade  finished,  Don  Jaime 
settled  his  old  black  sombrero  jauntily  on  the  side 
of  his  head,  buttoned  up  his  threadbare  coat  — 
its  darning  was  a  work  of  art  —  and  declared  him- 
self ready  to  show  us  the  town. 

"  You  would  like  to  paint  it  red,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 
said  Patsy. 

"  White  better  is  suited  to  that  climate,"  said 
Don  Jaime.  His  slang  was  current  in  the  England 
of  the  sixties,  and  he  took  ours  literally,  but  he 
laughed  buoyantly  because  Patsy  laughed. 

Algeciras  is  a  clean,  pretty  town,  with  neat, 
whitewashed  houses,  handsome  iron  gratings  to 
doors  and  casements,  and  curious  metal  gargoyles 
and  gutters  painted  green.  Here  and  there  from 
a  window,  or,  in  the  more  important  houses,  from 
a  balcony  like  a  small  grated  out  of  doors  boudoir, 
leaned  a  handsome  Algeciras  girl,  her  dark,  smooth 


34        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

hair  beautifully  dressed,  with  a  bright  flower 
worn  over  the  middle  of  the  forehead,  —  a  pink 
rose,  a  white  camelia,  or  one  of  the  gorgeous  red 
or  yellow  carnations  one  must  come  to  Andalusia 
to  see.  We  walked  in  the  alameda,  a  well  laid 
out  promenade,  with  neat  little  gardens,  each  with 
a  small  pavilion  on  either  side.  We  loitered  in 
the  city  square,  admired  its  beauties,  and  the 
handsome  uniforms  of  the  smart,  well  set  up 
Spanish  officers,  drinking  coffee  and  smoking 
cigarettes  outside  the  more  fashionable  cafes. 

"  Mire  (look) !  this  is  the  bull-fighters'  cafe," 
said  Don  Jaime,  as  we  turned  into  a  side  street, 
"  and  there  is  Bombito,  the  first  matador  in  Spain. 
He  has  come  down  from  Madrid  for  the  bull-fight 
to-morrow." 

An  open  door  gave  a  glimpse  of  a  tawdry  in- 
terior with  large  mirrors,  red  plush  seats,  and 
atrocious  decorations.  At  a  table  near  the  win- 
dow sat  the  matador,  a  magnificently  built  man, 
with  a  frank,  open  face  and  a  courageous  eye. 
He  was  dressed  in  Andalusian  costume, —  a  short, 
close-fitting  coat  like  an  Eton  jacket,  red  sash, 
very  tight  trousers,  wide-brimmed  hat  of  hard 
gray  felt.  His  hair,  tied  in  a  cue,  was  turned  up 
under  his  hat;  his  full  ruffled  shirt  was  fastened  by 
large  diamonds;  a  superb  cabuchon  ruby  burned 
on  his  finger.  Around  him  sat  a  group  of 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  35 

aficionados,  the  fancy,  the  young  bloods  of 
Algeciras.  As  we  passed,  Bombito,  looking  up, 
recognized  Don  Jaime.  The  matador  smiled 
and  nodded,  and  the  aficionados  turned  to  see  the 
fortunate  man  to  whom  Bombito  waved  his  hand. 

"  Spain  at  last,  Spain  of  the  songs  I  have  sung, 
the  pictures  on  fans  and  guava  boxes  I  have  col- 
lected," Patsy  burbled  joyously. 

"  Quando  los  matadores  matan  en  la  corrida,  van 
a  la  plaza  bonitas  con  fiores  y  abanicos."  (When 
the  matadors  are  killing  in  the  bull  ring,  come 
the  pretty  girls  with  flowers  and  fans.) 

Not  far  from  the  plaza,  as  we  were  passing  a  house 
of  quality,  with  seraphic  green  gargoyles,  Don 
Jaime  halted  and  looked  sharply  across  the  way. 
A  correct  young  man,  in  a  rakish  gray  sombrero, 
stood  at  the  opposite  corner  waiting,  not  loitering 
like  us;  it  was  evident  that  he  was  here  with  a 
purpose. 

"  Behold  the  novio!  "  said  the  Don;  "  I  feared 
he  dead  or  married." 

Patsy  asked  who  the  gentleman  with  the  var- 
nished boots  might  be,  who  was  gazing  at  an 
upper  window  with  a  white  blind;  he,  appar- 
ently, did  not  see  us.  The  Don  explained  that  he 
was  a  novio  (fiance)  haciendo  el  oso  (doing  the 
bear).  He  had  heard  it  said  that  every  afternoon, 
for  five  years,  this  faithful  lover  had  stood 


36        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

outside  the  window  of  his  beloved  for  exactly 
three  hours! 

"Is  he  mad?" 

"  Is  love  lunatics  ?  Then  must  be  vasty,  crazy 
palaces  by  all  Spain.  He  follow  one  antique 
custom,  what  we  call  'cosas  de  Espana* ' 

Sunset  found  us  far  from  the  town  on  a  lonely 
path  skirting  the  coast.  We  looked  through  the 
ragged,  blue  cactus  hedge  at  the  beautiful  view; 
watched  the  flame  kindle  and  flash  out  from  the 
lighthouse  on  Isla  Verde;  the  ferry  boat,  Elvira., 
pass  on  her  last  trip  from  Gibraltar  to  Algeciras. 
A  few  steps  further  on  the  path  brought  us  out 
upon  a  bold  headland  where,  out  of  sight  of  the 
town,  an  old  house  sloughed  and  sagged  on  its 
foundations.  A  large  fig  tree  grew  on  one  side  of 
the  porch,  a  cork  tree  on  the  other;  a  tame  lamb 
lifted  its  head  from  nibbling  the  grass  and  bleated 
a  long  "  ba-a-a." 

"  Picturesque,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Patsy.  His  gaze, 
idly  roving  over  the  landscape,  concentrated  and 
grew  intent  as  the  door  opened,  and  a  girl  in  a  red 
dress,  with  a  yellow  handkerchief  over  her  head, 
came  out  of  the  old  house.  It  was  as  if  a  rough 
oyster  shell  had  opened  and  shown  the  perfect 
pearl  it  held. 

"  I  say,  don't  you  think  it  wicked  to  be  so  hand- 
some ?  "  groaned  Patsy. 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  37 

With  a  light,  graceful  step  the  girl  walked  to  the 
edge  of  the  cliff.  A  straggling  path  led  down  to  the 
beach  where  an  old,  patched  boat  lay  on  its  side. 
On  a  shelf  of  clean  sand,  below  a  tiny,  ill-kept 
kitchen  garden,  lay  an  elderly  man  dressed  in  good 
black  clothes  —  it  was  Sunday.  The  girl,  evi- 
dently his  daughter,  called  him  to  come  in,  the  sun 
had  gone  down,  he  would  catch  cold.  The  old 
fellow  obstinately  refused  to  move;  he  was  very 
comfortable  where  he  was.  Then,  seeing  us,  he 
scrambled  to  his  feet: 

"Ola,  ola!  Engerlish,  Engerlish! "  he  hailed 
us  gleefully,  waving  an  arm  over  his  disreputable 
head.  Two  grave  men  of  his  own  class,  who 
passed  at  that  moment,  reproved  him  sternly, 
but  he  was  in  the  incorrigibly  merry  stage  and 
continued  to  wave  and  shout : 

"  Engerlish,  Engerlish !  How  much  ?  Very  dear, 
goddam." 

*  This  is  my  third  visit  to  Spain,"  said  J.,  "  and 
that  is  the  first  drunken  man  I  have  seeneven  here." 

"  C/aro,"  said  Don  Jaime,  "  we  are  not  afflict 
with  that  vice  of  drunkenness." 

A  rusty  brown  water  spaniel,  lying  near  the  old 
drunkard,  rose,  yawned,  stretched  itself  fore  and 
aft,  and  sniffed  at  Patsy's  boots. 

"  Notice  where  the  hair  is  worn  off  his  back  ?  " 
Patsy  murmured,  taking  a  burr  out  of  the  dog's 


38        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

long,  flapping  ear.  "  A  strap  has  done  that  —  a 
strap,  I  suspect,  that  fastens  together  two  little 
water-tight  kegs  filled  with  tobacco  from  Gibraltar. 
Smuggler !  Is  the  old  fellow  your  partner  ?  Where's 
the  entrance  to  the  smuggler's  cave  ?  Don,  we've 
discovered  a  contrabandist's  den!  " 

"  May  be!  "  laughed  Don  Jaime. 

The  spaniel  lost  interest  in  us  and  sat  down  to 
search  for  fleas.  The  girl  had  persuaded  her 
father  to  come  indoors.  She  supported  him  as  he 
staggered  towards  the  house. 

"  I'm  off;  it  must  mortify  her  to  have  us  see  him." 
Patsy  strode  ahead;  we  followed.  Soon  the  fierce, 
prickly  blades  of  the  blue  cactus  hid  the  house 
from  view. 

"  A  pretty  gel,  not  ?  "  was  the  Don's  comment. 

"  I  wonder  what  her  name  is  ?  "  said  Patsy. 
"  Dolores,  Pepita  ?  It  was  worth  the  price  of  the 
journey  just  to  see  her  face!  "  He  was  silent 
during  the  rest  of  the  walk,  keeping  well  ahead  of 
us  and  singing  snatches  of  an  old  song : 

"  vous  connaissez  que  j'ai  por  mie 
une  Andalouse  a  Voeil  lutin " 

We  left  Algeciras  before  daylight  for  Ronda. 
If  the  Spaniard  sleeps  late  at  home,  on  his  travels 
he  must  be  an  early  bird, —  the  trains  all  seem  to 
start  between  midnight  and  cockcrow.  Don 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  39 

Jaime  remained  behind.  Some  night,  he  ex- 
plained, when  he  felt  particularly  fit,  he  would 
omit  going  to  bed;  otherwise  he  must  pass  all  his 
life  in  Algeciras;  to  get  up  in  time  for  that  hob- 
goblin train  was  not  possible. 

Across  the  bay  we  could  make  out  the  faint 
silhouette  of  Gibraltar  against  the  ashen  sky,  a 
black  lion  asleep  under  the  pallid  day-star.  The 
swift-coming  dawn  little  by  little  transformed  it  to 
a  gray  lion  dormant  on  an  amethyst  sea.  Long 
after  the  great  caved  mountain  was  lost  to  sight, 
a  distant  growl  shook  the  air. 

"  Morning  gunfire  at  the  Rock,"  said  Patsy, 
"that's  the  last  we  shall  hear  of  the  British  Lion  for 
some  time." 

Sunrise  came  while  we  were  in  the  heart  of  a 
dark  forest.  The  hoary  old  trees  had  mighty, 
wide-spreading  boughs,  covered  thick  with  small, 
gray-green  leaves  like  the  ilex;  the  trunks  were  old 
and  frail  —  some  of  them  mere  hollow  shells  that 
might  have  housed  a  dryad  or  a  satyr.  They  stood 
well  apart  from  each  other,  the  undergrowth  and 
dead  wood  carefully  trimmed  away  from  their  roots. 

"  See  how  well  cared  for  the  forest  patriarchs 
are,"  said  Patsy.  "  They  must  be  kept  alive  as 
long  as  possible,  like  some  old  people,  because 
they  are  the  main  support  of  the  community." 

Gold-tipped  arrows  of  sunlight  now  began  to 


40        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

pierce  the  thick  green  shadows  of  the  forest,  and 
striking  the  old  trunks  and  the  heavy  lower 
branches  brought  out  their  wonderful  tints. 

"  Look  at  those  gorgeous  rainbow  trees!  See 
the  colors, —  mother  of  pearl,  carmine,  violet, 
lavender, —  what  does  it  mean  ?  "  I  cried. 

It  meant,  I  found,  that  this  was  the  cork  forest, 
and  that  the  bark  of  the  cork  trees  had  lately  been 
cut.  Those  rainbow  colors  soon  fade,  however, 
like  the  pink  and  white  complexion  of  youth. 

At  the  next  station  stood  many  cars  laden  with 
rough  cork. 

"  The  coarse,  outer  layers  are  used  for  fishing 
nets  and  life  preservers.  To  even  things  up," 
Patsy  explained,  "  they  keep  the  fine,  inner 
pinkish  layers  to  bottle  up  those  two  great  life 
destroyers,  the  drugs  and  liquors  of  the  world." 

The  way  now  led  over  the  Sierra  Rondena, 
through  the  wildest,  most  beautiful  part  of  An- 
dalusia; past  thickets  of  gum  cistus,  covered  with 
glorious,  golden-hearted,  white  blossoms;  across 
green  vegas  enamelled  with  clumps  of  amber 
gorse;  through  waves  of  daisies,  white  and  yellow, 
regiments  of  scarlet  poppies  marching  through 
the  pale  green  wheat,  multitudes  of  cornflowers, 
morning  glories,  and  ruby-headed  alfalfa,  king 
of  all  the  handsome  clover  tribe.  In  this  company 
of  old  friends  a  stranger  flower  stooped  through 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  41 

the  fields,  half  drooping,  half  mourning,  a  purple 
hood  pulled  over  its  head  almost  hiding  the  small 
blue  bells  hanging  from  the  bending  stalk.  In  that 
holiday  crowd  it  looked  like  a  hooded  monk,  a 
purple  penitente  at  a  carnival.  I  could  never  learn 
its  true  name,  so  we  called  it  the  Spanish  Friar.  .  . 

"  Lift  thine  eyes,  oh,  lift  thine  eyes  to  the 
mountains,  whence  cometh  help!  "  sang  Patsy. 

Intoxicated  with  the  flower  feast,  the  way  had 
brought  us  within  sight  of  the  distant  Sierras 
without  our  being  aware.  The  mountains  came 
to  meet  us,  nearer,  nearer;  then,  all  at  once,  we 
were  in  their  midst;  the  tall  blue  peaks  came 
crowding  all  about  us.  As  the  engine  panted 
"  up,  up  "  the  mountain  pass,  the  way  crossed  a 
flashing  mountain  torrent  leaping  down,  down  to 
the  vega  and  the  sea  beyond;  it  looked  more  like 
a  river  of  emeralds  and  snow  than  mere  green 
water  and  white  foam. 

"  Andalusia,  once  Vandalusia,  named  for  the 
Vandals,  who  tarried  here  before  their  wild  dash 
across  the  Alps  down  into  Italy.  Andalusia, 
'  ultima  terrse '  of  the  ancients,  the  uttermost 
parts  of  the  earth,  where  good  old  Jonah  longed 
to  flee,  small  blame  to  him,"  Patsy  maundered  on, 
sleepily  giving  us  bits  of  guidebook  information. 

"Andalusia,  Vandalusia,  Vandalusia,  Andalusia." 
The  wheels  sang  it  like  a  lullaby.  "  Anda " 


42        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  Ronda,  Ronda!  "  cried  the  guard.  We  rubbed 
our  eyes,  snatched  our  belongings,  tumbled  out  of 
the  compartment  to  the  platform,  and  almost 
into  the  arms  of  the  Sibyl  of  Ronda,  patiently 
waiting  for  us  there,  like  Fate.  She  was  a  tiny 
old  woman,  draped  like  a  Tanagra  statuette,  in 
veils  of  soft,  rusty  black :  her  face  was  like  a  damask 
rose  that  has  withered  on  its  stalk;  the  eyes  alone, 
diamond  bright,  were  young,  full  of  fire.  With  a 
tremulous  hand  she  offered  J.  a  box  of  matches. 
An  officious  young  man,  with  oiled  hair  and  a 
green  cravat,  pushed  her  rudely  aside.  She  was 
not  to  trouble  the  gentlefolk,  responsibility  for 
whose  welfare  in  Ronda  he  assumed.  Was  he 
not  the  "  offeecial  "  guide  ?  Did  he  not  speak 
English  ? 

*  We  can  speak  English  ourselves,  and  we  don't 
want  a  guide,"  J.  interposed.  *  We  want  a 
philosopher  and  friend.  If  we  must  have  some- 
body to  toot  us  about,  I  vote  we  take  the  Sibyl." 

"  What  ?  Prefer  an  old  thing  like  that  to  an 
active  young  man  like  me  ?  "  The  official  guide 
was  incredulous! 

"  Isn't  she  a  little  old  ?  "  I  ventured. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  handsomer  wrinkles  ?  They 
are  perfectly  classic,"  said  J. 

"  And  the  twinkle  in  her  eye!  "  Patsy  supported 
him.  "  Wrinkles  and  twinkles  against  stall-fed 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  43 

guidebookery  ?  The  old  girl  for  me.  She's  over 
eighty,  she  says;  she  was  born  in  Ronda;  has  lived 
here  all  her  life.  She  must  know  more  about  it 
than  that  Algerine  pirate  with  the  emerald  tie. 
Past  eighty,  you  said,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Ochanta  dos;  perro  en  Ronda  los  ombres  a 
ochanta  son  pollones,"  the  Sibyl  answered.  I  am 
eighty-two,  but  in  Ronda  men  of  eighty  are  only 
chickens. 

"  I  understand  her  Spanish! "  cried  Patsy. 
"  That  settles  it;  sealed  to  the  Sibyl  !  I'll 
go  bond  she  will  let  us  in  for  something  worth 
seeing."  As  usual,  Patsy  and  J.  had  their  way,  and 
the  active  young  man,  angry  and  chapfallen, 
watched  us  with  a  sinister  look,  as  we  pottered 
slowly  along  beside  the  Sibyl.  Our  guides  were 
mostly  chosen  for  beauty,  or  charm.  On  the 
whole  the  plan  worked  well  enough. 

The  Romans  showed  their  usual  colossal  com- 
mon sense  in  choosing  the  site  of  Arunda.  Rome 
always  was  the  model  city  they  kept  in  mind.  Three 
things,  they  rightly  held,  were  necessary  to  a  city; 
a  not  too  distant  view  of  mountains,  to  uplift  the 
soul  of  the  citizen;  a  fine  climate  to  stimulate  his 
body;  a  river  for  boys  to  swim  and  fish  in,  and  for 
men  to  traffic  by.  When  they  found  this  high,  fertile 
plain  shut  in  by  an  amphitheatre  of  mountains, 
with  one  lone  hill  in  the  midst,  surrounded  and  cut 


44        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

in  halves  by  a  rushing  river,  they  built  their  city 
of  Arunda  on  the  cleft,  river-girt  rock  we  call 
Ronda.  The  Moors,  who  cleverly  dovetailed 
their  towns  and  their  civilization  into  what  Rome 
left,  built  their  town  of  Ronda  with  the  ruins  of 
Arunda.  We  found  remains  of  both  Roman  and 
Moorish  walls.  The  modern  town,  built  by  the 
"  Catholic  Kings,"  Ferdinand  and  Isabel,  is  re- 
markable chiefly  for  the  wonderful  view  from  the 
alameda.  You  look  down  a  sheer  six  hundred  feet 
to  the  green  vega,  and  the  turbulent  river  Guade- 
levin  fretting  and  fuming  below.  After  roaring 
and  raging  through  the  Tajo,  the  deep  chasm  that 
divides  Ronda,  the  river  tumbles  with  a  series  of  mad 
leaps  and  bounds  to  the  plain  beyond.  Cutting 
a  few  antics  with  eddies  and  whirlpools,  Guadelevin 
finally  gets  himself  in  hand,  and  goes  soberly  to 
work;  turns  the  wheels  of  the  old  Moorish  mills, 
makes  flour  for  Ronda,  as  the  Moors  taught  him 
to  do ;  lends  his  strength  to  a  new  labor,  for,  marvel 
of  marvels,  old  Moorish  Ronda  is  lighted  by 
electricity.  In  summer,  when  the  river  shrinks 
to  a  mere  thread,  its  waning  power  is  carefully 
husbanded  and  the  water  is  led  by  pipes  to  do  its 
work.  Water,  always  water,  alpha  and  omega 
of  civilization!  No  town  that  could  not  be  well 
supplied  with  water  from  the  snowy  Sierras  or 
from  some  mountain  lake  was  ever  founded  by 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  45 

Roman  or  Moor.  Their  wisdom  is  clearer  now 
than  ever  before.  What  city  prospers,  lacking  the 
Siamese  twins  of  successful  manufacture,  water 
power,  and  electricity  ? 

A  flock  of  evil-looking  birds  hovered  over  a 
lonely  thicket  of  tamarisks,  close  by  the  foot  of 
the  wall. 

"  From  there,"  said  the  Sibyl,  pointing  to  the 
tamarisks,  "  they  throw  the  dead  horses  over  the 
walls,  after  the  bull-fights.  The  vultures  soon 
pick  their  bones ! "  Grrrr !  The  ugly  word  spoiled 
the  lovely  view. 

The  Sibyl  lived  in  the  old,  Moorish  part  of  the 
city,  that  is  called  the  Ciudad.  She  led  us  through 
the  steep,  narrow  streets,  pointing  out  the  show 
houses.  Here  lived  the  grim  Moorish  king,  Al- 
moneted.  He  drank  his  wine  from  the  skulls  of 
enemies  whose  heads  he  had  cut  off,  made  into 
goblets,  and  inlaid  with  splendid  jewels.  Patsy, 
in  his  rococo  Spanish,  wondered  if  Almoneted 
had  hoped  to  inherit  the  courage  that  once  flashed 
from  the  sockets  he  stopped  with  emerald  and 
ruby.  The  Sibyl  twinkled  all  over  at  his  sug- 
gestion. 

"  Claro"  she  said,  "  it  was  doubtless  his  idea." 

She  showed  us  the  Mina,  an  underground  stair- 
case of  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  steps,  one  for 
every  day  in  the  year,  like  the  churches  in  old  Rome, 


46        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

leading  down  to  the  river.  It  was  built  so  that, 
in  case  of  siege,  Ronda  should  not  be  cut  off  from 
water.  Moorish  caution !  The  Romans  of  Arunda 
apparently  never  contemplated  such  a  possibility. 
The  houses  of  the  Ciudad  are  oriental  in  character, 
with  blank,  whitewashed  walls,  and  rare,  grated 
windows;  they  are  all  built  to  look  as  much  alike  as 
possible,  in  order  to  avoid  attracting  attention. 
The  doors  are  the  only  distinguishing  feature; 
all  of  them  are  massive,  and  built  for  defence; 
some  are  of  walnut,  some  of  oak,  iron  barred, 
iron  bound,  studded  with  bronze  bosses  or  brass 
ornaments.  Oh,  redoubtable  doors  of  old  Ronda! 
What  stores  of  wealth,  what  moons  of  beauty  did 
you  guard  for  the  jealous  Moors  that  made 
you? 

The  Sibyl  understood  all  Patsy  meant  but  could 
not  say.  The  moment  their  eyes  met,  flash,  flash, 
a  secret  code  was  established  between  them. 
Thanks  to  her,  one  of  those  mysterious  doors  was 
opened  to  us,  and  we  saw  the  interior  of  one  of  those 
old  Moorish  houses,  whose  key,  perhaps,  is 
treasured  by  some  Moor  of  Morocco  to-day,  for 
when  they  were  driven  back  to  Africa,  the  Moors 
took  the  keys  of  their  houses  in  Andalusia  and 
Granada  with  them,  against  the  day  they  should 
return  and  reclaim  their  lost  paradise.  These 
keys  have  been  handed  down  from  generation  to 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  47 

generation;  some  of  them  hang  to-day  in  the 
Moorish  houses  of  Tangiers  and  Tetuan. 

When  we  were  tired  with  much  sightseeing,  the 
Sibyl  hospitably  took  us  home  to  rest.  In  the 
patio  of  her  house  we  found  enchanting  Moorish 
columns  with  slender  shafts,  and  capitals  that 
must  have  been  copied  from  the  Corinthian  capi- 
tals the  Romans  used  so  much  in  Spain,  only 
these  are  lighter  and  less  formal,  and  have  more 
feeling  of  the  lovely  form  of  the  curling  acanthus 
leaf.  The  patio,  a  survival  of  the  Roman  atrium, 
is  an  open  court  in  the  middle  of  the  house,  sur- 
rounded by  a  roofed  corridor,  where,  during  the 
warm  weather,  the  life  of  an  Andalusian  family 
centres.  In  the  Sibyl's  patio  stood  an  old  Moorish 
well  with  an  Arabic  inscription.  I  cast  longing 
eyes  at  it. 

*  Whatever  you  see,"  said  J.,  "  admire  nothing 
that  can  be  carried  off  by  the  modern  Vandals, 
who  have  looted  Italy  and  are  looting  Spain.  If 
you  do,  she'll  sell  it." 

'  The  old  Vandals  were  a  decent  lot  in  com- 
parison," Patsy  agreed.  "  History  has  maligned 
them.  If  they  did  '  lift '  a  little  property  now 
and  again,  they,  at  least,  left  the  owners  the  privi- 
lege of  enjoying  a  virtuous  indignation!  These 
modern  buyers,  spoilers,  barbarians,  buy  the 
victim's  consent,  add  ignominy  to  spoiliation!  " 


48        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

A  pair  of  goldfinches  gossipped  about  their 
housekeeping  in  a  wattle  cage  hung  near  the  old 
Moorish  well.  A  lemon  tree  in  a  glazed  earthen- 
ware pot  (it  had  one  green  lemon)  and  some 
gorgeous  double  carnations,  variegated  dark  red 
and  yellow,  planted  in  a  petroleum  can,  stood 
close  to  the  well  where  they  could  be  easily  watered. 
As  she  passed,  the  Sibyl  pinched  off  a  dead  leaf 
with  a  touch  that  was  a  caress, —  these  were  her 
growing  things,  this  was  her  pleasaunce. 

In  the  living-room,  which  was  the  kitchen,  too, 
was  a  quaint,  carved  stone  fireplace.  On  the  bal- 
cony outside  was  a  gilt  iron  grill,  surmounted  by  a 
battered  pomegranate  "  final,"  sure  some  day  to 
find  its  way  into  a  "  collection."  The  house  was 
clean,  in  spite  of  the  horde  of  children  it  sheltered, 
the  Sibyl's  great-grandchildren,  for  whose  sake 
she  sells  matches  at  Ronda  station. 

The  mother  sat  on  a  low  stool  rocking  a  wooden 
cradle  with  her  foot;  her  hands  were  busy  shelling 
garbanzoz,  chickpeas,  for  the  olla.  Twin  infants, 
lusty  as  Romulus  and  Remus,  slept  in  the  cradle; 
a  pair  of  babes  a  size  larger  played  with  each  other's 
toes  in  a  long,  bath-shaped,  wicker  basket;  a  girl 
of  five  pretended  to  help  her  mother  with  the 
garbanzoz.  As  we  entered,  the  mother  rose,  wel- 
comed us  with  grave  ceremony,  offered  us  food  and 
drink  and  assured  us  that  this  house  and  everything 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  49 

it  contained  was  ours:  "  Esta  muy  a  la  disposition 
de  Vmd"  It  is  very  much  at  your  disposal,  the 
pretty  old  phrase  goes. 

Her  face  was  plain  beside  the  Sibyl's,  time  had 
etched  every  line  there  with  an  artist's  fine  care, 
but  she  had  the  grace,  the  reserve,  the  proud 
bearing  of  the  Andaluz  that  poets  have  praised 
before,  and  since,  De  Musset,  whose  Andaluz 
lived  in  Barcelona,  and  was  a  Catalan,  after  all. 
As  the  youngsters  were  very  near  of  an  age,  when 
the  mother  offered  to  give  us  everything  in  sight  I 
asked  if  she  could  spare  a  baby?  She  looked 
almost  pretty  as  she  unbent,  smiled,  patted  the 
biggest,  and  answered,  with  a  twinkle  like  the  old 
woman's,  that  there  were  none  too  many  —  indeed, 
that  there  were  four  more  at  school. 

"  Nine  children,  what  a  fine  large  family !  " 
The  Sibyl  shrugged  her  shoulders,  rolled  up  her 
eyes,  and  lifted  a  withered  hand  to  heaven  in 
protest. 

"  Granny  doesn't  think  it  much  of  a  family; 
she  had  seven  boys  and  seven  girls." 

"  It  is  true,"  the  Sibyl  nodded,  and  stroked  her 
lean  flanks  with  tremulous  hands;  "  this,"  she 
looked  at  her  grandchild  as  if  she  expected  great 
things  of  her,  "  is  the  seventh  daughter  of  my 
seventh  daughter." 

When,  our  visit  over,  we  rose  to  take  leave, 


50        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

spokesman  Patsy  produced  the  phrase  from  his 
vocabulary  that  he  had  been  conning : 

"  Muchas  memorias.       Adios" 

The  Andaluz  put  this  aside  as  too  final. 
"  Hasta  luego"  she  said,  with  her  slow,  sweet 
smile, —  "  Till  we  meet  again." 

"  Vamos!  "  said  the  Sibyl,  and  showed  the  way 
to  the  door. 

As  we  left  the  house  of  many  children,  we  met 
a  cavalcade  of  gay  young  people  riding  out  of  town. 
The  men  rode  horses,  the  girls  mules  or  donkeys. 
The  woman's  saddle  was  curiously  made  with 
crisscross  arms  and  a  back  like  an  armchair. 
They  were  evidently  well  to  do  farmer  folk;  all 
wore  good  clothes  and  were  well  mounted.  Several 
of  them  had  ruddy,  northern  complexions.  The 
Sibyl  laid  this  to  the  excellent  climate, — "  In 
Ronda,  we  do  not  know  when  it  is  summer,'* 
she  said.  The  last  of  the  cavalcade  to  pass  was 
a  large,  gray  mule  with  as  pretty  a  couple  as  you 
might  see,  seated  on  his  broad  back.  We  felt 
sure  they  were  bride  and  groom.  The  man,  a 
handsome  fellow,  full  of  the  lust  of  life,  sat  very 
straight  in  saddle;  the  slim  girl  on  the  pillion 
behind,  her  arm  about  his  waist,  was  full  of  bridal 
coquetries.  She  wore  red  stockings,  a  rose  be- 
hind her  ear,  a  lace-trimmed  petticoat.  An  old, 
yellowish,  time-worn  guitar  was  slung  over  her 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  51 

shoulders  by  a  cherry  ribbon.  As  they  rode  past 
us,  both  young  people  smiled  and  nodded  to  the 
Sibyl. 

"  Your  friends  ?  "  Patsy  asked. 

"  My  relatives."  Proud  that  we  should  see 
them,  and  that  they  should  see  us,  her  face  kindled; 
so  did  Patsy's.  We  all  walked  on  through  the 
tortuous  Moorish  calle  with  a  lighter  step,  a  braver 
heart  for  that  chance  meeting.  It  seemed  as  if  we 
had  caught  some  reflection  of  the  hope,  health, 
and  love  shining  in  their  young  faces. 

"  I  play  the  guitar  myself,  after  a  fashion,  not 
Spanish  fashion,  alack!  "  said  Patsy.  "  Shade  of 
Espinal!  I  won't  leave  Ronda  till  I  have  had  a 
lesson.  He  lived  here,  Espinal,  who  gave  the 
fifth  string,  perfected  the  guitar,  made  it  what  it  is — 
what  it  can  be  in  a  Spaniard's  hands." 

A  tall,  arrogant-looking  priest,  with  head  held 
high,  passed  at  this  moment  and  challenged  us 
with  the  eye,  as  the  British  officer  had  challenged 
us  at  Gibraltar.  It  seemed  that  he  was  master 
here,  as  that  other  had  been  master  on  the  Rock. 

"  If  I  were  a  priest  of  Ronda  I  should  hold  up 
my  head,"  said  Patsy,  "  just  because  Espinal  was 
a  priest.  He  did  other  things  worth  doing  beside 
giving  us  the  fifth  string:  invented  the  decima, 
wrote  a  book,  Marcus  de  Obregan,  that's  read  to- 
day, three  hundred  years  after;  translated  Horace 


52        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

—  a  pleasant  task  —  lived  to  be  eight  years  older 
than  the  Sibyl,  died  at  ninety,  still  in  the  ring, 
still  fighting.  I  like  Ronda;  let's  buy  a  house  and 
settle  here!  " 

"  Almoneted's  house  for  choice,"  said  J.,  and 
they  began  alloting  quarters  forthwith.  The 
window  with  the  north  light  should  be  the  studio, 
the  room  on  the  courtyard  far  from  noise,  the 
library.  In  every  town  we  visited,  and  they 
approved  of,  they  made  plans  for  passing  the  rest 
of  our  lives  there. 

The  convent  chapel  smelt  of  lavender.  The 
sunlight  pouring  through  the  rose  window  over  the 
high  altar  was  so  strong  that  you  saw  tiny  motes 
floating  in  the  sunbeams.  They  could  not  have 
been  dust,  for  the  chapel  was  immaculate,  a  tem- 
ple of  purity  from  the  worn  marble  flags  under  foot 
to  the  swinging  silver  lamps  overhead,  all  freshly 
trimmed  like  the  lamps  of  the  wise  virgins.  The 
Virgin's  lace  handkerchief  was  a  triumph  of  clear 
starching.  She  was  dressed  in  black  and  wore 
only  a  few  of  her  jewels  —  the  Sibyl  said  —  be- 
cause it  was  Lent;  we  should  see  her  at  Easter! 
The  Virgin's  velvet  dress  was  in  the  style  of  the 
sixteenth  century;  she  wore  a  hoop,  a  ruff,  and  a 
long  pointed  bodice. 

The  Sibyl  was  not  devout.     She  took  the  holy 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  53 

water  to  cross  herself,  mechanically,  and  made 
the  most  indifferent  little  duck  for  a  courtesy  as 
she  passed  before  the  altar.  She  looked  with 
a  cold  eye  on  dear  San  Antonio  di  Padua, 
though  he  must  be  popular  in  Ronda,  from  the 
number  of  candles  burning  before  him.  Her 
indifference  was  in  marked  contrast  to  the  piety 
of  two  freshly  powdered  young  ladies,  who  were 
coming  out  of  the  chapel  as  we  entered.  They 
were  of  the  great  world;  their  combs  and  shoes 
were  unquestionably  from  Paris. 

"  But  the  eyes,  the  eyes  are  Andalusian,  and  the 
torrents  of  black  hair  piled  and  puffed  under  those 
blessed  black  mantillas! "  murmured  Patsy,  as 
they  passed,  smelling  sweet  of  heliotrope  and  rice 
powder.  The  taller  had  a  rosary  of  gold  and 
pearls  in  her  left  hand,  a  fan  in  the  right;  the 
pearls  slipped  through  her  fingers,  her  lips  moved; 
she  was  evidently  "  telling  her  beads."  As  they 
passed  the  statue  of  Santa  Teresa,  both  knelt 
and  crossed  themselves  with  extraordinary  rever- 
ence. 

"  Remember  what  Don  Jaime  said,"  Patsy 
reminded  us;  "  that  the  common  people  of  Spain 
take  their  religion  very  easily;  everybody  did 
when  he  was  young,  till  the  Queen  Mother  made 
it  fashionable  to  be  devote,  when  she  came  to  Spain, 
bringing  back  the  Jesuits  and  all  the  rest  of  them 


54        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

in  her  train.  As  a  boy,  the  Don  never  remembers 
having  seen  a  monk  or  a  nun." 

In  spite  of  her  "  indifference,"  the  Sibyl  had 
held  stanchly  to  her  proposal  that  we  should  visit  the 
convent  where  she  had  learned  to  sew  and  to  em- 
broider. Mass  was  just  over,  the  priest  had  left 
the  altar,  the  sacristan  was  snuffing  out  the  candles. 
We  had  a  glimpse  of  black  veiled  figures  passing 
slowly  behind  the  altar  from  one  unseen  chamber 
to  another;  they  were  followed  by  slighter,  more 
lightly  moving  figures  in  white  that  flitted  ethere- 
ally where  the  others  walked  solidly.  Two  by  two 
they  passed  behind  the  altar  with  a  noiseless  step. 
When  the  last  one  had  vanished,  the  priest  and  the 
sacristan  disappeared  into  the  sacristy,  and  we 
were  left  alone,  with  San  Antonio  and  the  other 
saints. 

One  end  of  the  chapel  was  shut  off  by  two 
heavy  iron  gratings,  one  behind  the  other.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  grill  was  a  close-latticed 
screen,  through  which  we  could  see  a  heavy,  black 
curtain;  the  movement  of  the  folds  showed  that  we 
were  being  watched  by  some  one  on  the  other  side 
of  the  triple  barrier.  After  a  short  delay  a  novice 
slipped  quietly  into  the  chapel,  a  sprite  of  a  girl 
with  bright  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks,  dressed  in  white 
serge  and  crisp  linen.  She  asked  us  for  "alms  for 
the  Holy  Sacrament."  Patsy  produced  our  offering. 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  55 

The  little  novice's  eyes  opened  roundly  as  her 
small  red  hand  closed  on  the  coin;  she  courtesied, 
so  prettily,  and  flitted  away  as  lightly  as  she  came. 
As  she  passed  the  grill,  she  breathed  some  word 
of  necromancy  —  it  sounded  like  "  blankichisser- 
ando."  Then,  silently,  the  black  curtain  was 
withdrawn;  we  saw  a  stout  red  porteress  with  a 
bunch  of  huge  keys  in  her  hand,  a  key  turned 
grudgingly  in  a  rusty  lock,  a  hinge  squeaked,  the 
lattice  parted,  the  convent  walls  flew  back!  We 
had  a  glimpse  of  veiled  figures  flying  helter  skelter; 
then  through  the  grim,  double  iron  grating  we 
looked  into  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of  the  nuns. 
A  long,  lonely  room  with  rows  of  uncomfortably 
narrow,  high-backed  benches  and  narrow  tables, 
over  which  hung  some  good  crystal  chandeliers 
filled  with  wax  candles.  Though  it  shone  with 
neatness,  it  was  the  most  cheerless  living-room 
imaginable.  In  the  middle,  close  to  the  grating, 
stood  a  tall,  graceful  woman,  who  looked  like  a 
Vestal  of  ancient  Rome.  Her  taper,  aristocratic 
hands  were  folded  in  a  clasp  that  suggested 
strength  rather  than  meekness;  her  small  head, 
finely  set  upon  the  shoulders,  was  held  high  and 
proudly. 

*  The  Abbess  wishes  to  speak  with  you,"  whis- 
pered the  Sibyl. 

"  How  long,"  asked  the  Abbess  —  her  voice  like 


56        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

a  far  away  chime  of  silver  bells, —  "  how  long  do 
you  remain  in  Ronda  ?  " 

I  said  our  stay  was  short,  no  one  had  told  us 
how  much  there  was  to  see  in  Ronda. 

"  There  is  but  one  Ronda  in  the  world," 
she  said.  The  bells  sounded  nearer.  The  Sibyl 
nodded  agreement.  "  It  is  the  truth,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

'  You  are  of  Ronda  ?  "  I  made  out  to  ask. 

The  Abbess  shook  her  head,  and  answered  with 
a  splendid  pride,  "  Soy  hija  di  Granada "  (I  am 
a  daughter  of  Granada) ,  as  if  that  were  the  proudest 
title  in  the  world.  There  was  more  bronze  than 
silver  in  the  bells  now. 

"  What  is  the  work  you  do  in  the  convent  ?  " 

"  We  pray  for  the  entire  world."  Her  voice 
all  silver  again.  Then,  as  an  after- thought  and  of 
far  less  consequence : 

"  We  have  a  school  of  needlework.  Our  em- 
broidery is  not  unknown  outside  of  Ronda;  it  has 
been  heard  of  even  outside  of  Spain."  I  felt 
abashed  that  I  had  not  heard  of  it. 

"  You  will,  perhaps,  return  to  Ronda  for  the 
fair  in  May?  Many  strangers  are  here  then. 
Should  you  come  back  we  shall  always  be  glad  to 
see  you  at  the  convent." 

We  felt  that  we  were  dismissed.  I  thanked  the 
Abbess  as  best  I  could,  in  my  halting  Spanish,  for 


A  SIBYL  OF  RONDA  57 

her  courtesy.  She  smiled  a  cold,  holy  smile;  her 
last  words  were  a  benediction : 

"  Vayan  Vds.  con  Dios!  " 

I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  little  novice  standing  on 
tiptoe  looking  at  Patsy  over  the  Abbess's  shoulder, 
with  round,  bright  eyes,  then  the  black  curtains 
drew  noiselessly  together,  the  stout  red  porteress 
shut  the  wooden  lattice  with  a  loud  clang,  and 
turned  the  protesting  key  in  the  lock.  The  cold 
beauty  of  the  Abbess,  the  fresh  comeliness  of  the 
novice,  were  hidden  behind  the  triple  barrier: 
curtain,  lattice,  and  cruel  iron  bars  in  double 
rank.  No  outstretched  hand  from  within  that 
grating  could  ever  touch  another  hand  reaching 
to  meet  it  from  the  other  side. 

"  We  shall  come  back  to  Ronda  for  the  fair," 
said  Patsy,  cheerfully,  as  he  took  leave  of  the  Sibyl 
at  the  station.  "  If  not  this  year,  another  year. 
The  Abbess  has  invited  us :  mind  that  you  are  here 
to  meet  us  at  the  train!  " 

The  Sibyl  smiled,  a  brave,  old,  withered  smile, 
and  waved  her  tiny,  wrinkled  hand : 

"  Hasta  otra  vista!  " 

She  would  do  her  best  to  keep  the  tryst! 


Ill 

THE  WHITE  VEIL 

/CONCEPCION  sitting  in  the  patio  under  a 
\*S  golden  shower  of  yellow  Bankshire  roses! 
That  was  our  first  impression  of  Seville.  Pember- 
ton,  tall  and  lean,  stood  beside  her,  nervously 
twirling  his  stick.  We  hurried  down  to  the  court- 
yard; introductions  followed. 

"  J/es  aT/iigros,  Concepcion.  She  doesn't  speak 
a  word  of  English  —  all  the  better  for  your  Spanish. 
She  is  Sevilliana  born.  We  will  do  our  best  be- 
tween us  to  show  you  the  town  in  —  how  many 
days  or  hours  do  you  mean  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Weeks  or  months,  rather;  you  don't  know 
what  you  are  letting  yourself  in  for,"  warned  J. 

"  The  longer  the  better.  Concepcion  is  some- 
times busy  with  the  children,  housekeeping,  or 
millinery.  I  never  have  anything  to  do." 

Concepcion  welcomed  us  with  soft  eyes,  a 
gracious  flurry  of  civilities,  glanced  at  her  watch, 
and  looked  meaningly  at  Pemberton. 

"Yes,"    he    said,    "it's    time    to    start.     The 


OUIl    LADY   OF   O.,    SEVILLE. 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  59 

ceremony  of  Rending  the  White  Veil,  the  first 
act  of  the  drama,  begins  at  ten  o'clock." 

It  was  the  Wednesday  of  Holy  Week.  We  had 
timed  our  arrival  in  Seville  with  an  eye  to  that 
service.  Had  it  not  been  for  Concepcion,  we 
might  have  missed  it,  after  all.  It  was  wonderful 
enough  to  sit  in  the  patio  with  the  paired  Moorish 
columns,  the  green  and  blue  azulejos,  listening  to 
the  fountain,  and  the  green  love-birds  in  their 
gilded  cage,  looking  at  Concepcion,  her  little  feet 
tucked  under  her  chair,  her  fan  gently  agitated,  her 
mantilla  almost  as  black  as  her  curls. 

Outside,  in  the  Plaza  del  Pacifico,  the  sun  lay 
hot  on  the  tawny  earth;  among  the  glossy  green 
leaves  of  the  orange  trees,  golden  fruit  and  waxen 
blossom  hung  side  by  side.  The  air  was  sweet 
with  the  smell  of  them.  A  little  boy  took  off  his 
jacket  and  fluttered  it  like  a  muleta  (the  matador's 
red  cloak)  in  his  companion's  face.  In  a  moment 
the  two  boys  were  hard  at  it  —  playing  at  bull- 
fighting. We  lingered  to  watch  them. 

"  Seville  is  even  better  than  I  remembered," 
said  Patsy.  "  I  must  have  been  here  before  (I 
knew  that  he  had  not);  I  seem  to  have  known  it 
all  my  life.  What  a  lot  of  our  friends,  dead  and 
alive,  came  from  here!  The  Emperor  Trajan 
was  a  Sevilliano,  so  were  Don  Juan  and  Velas- 
quez, so  is  Villegas.  Figaro,  brass  basin,  white 


60        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

apron,  and  all,  met  us  at  the  gate  last  night  when 
we  arrived,  and  ran  beside  the  carriage,  pointing 
out  the  black  arrows  at  the  corners  showing  the 
way." 

Was  Rossini  ever  in  Seville  ?  Not  that  it  signi- 
fies; he  devined  it  all,  if  he  did  not  see  it.  His 
creatures,  Figaro,  Rosina,  Don  Bartolo,  are  of  the 
glorious  company  of  its  ghosts. 

Seville  is  a  siren  city.  The  river  Guadalquiver 
throws  an  arm  about  her;  genius,  when  it  may, 
follows  suit  and  embraces  the  darling  of  Andalusia. 

"  I'll  show  you  Figaro's  barber  shop  some  day," 
said  Pemberton  over  his  shoulder.  "  It's  near  my 
place.  Yes,  I'm  a  householder.  You  know  the 
proverb  ?  '  Whom  God  loves,  he  gives  a  house 
in  Seville.'  " 

"  Find  us  one,  and  we'll  settle  here,  too! "  Patsy 
exclaimed. 

"  We  will  talk  about  that  later,"  said  Pemberton. 
"  Now,  I  am  taking  you  to  the  cathedral.  Before 
you  see  it,  I  ask  you  to  consider  the  immortal 
resolution  passed  by  its  founders  before  the  first 
stone  was  laid.  *  Let  us  build,'  they  resolved,  '  a 
monument  that  shall  make  posterity  declare  that 
we  were  mad.'  That  was  a  good  bluff,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  The  only  thing  about  posterity  that  you  can 
bank  on,"  Patsy  sagely  put  in,  "  is  that  it  won't 
say  what  is  expected  of  it!  " 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  61 

i(  Claro!  Posterity,  you  and  I  and  Concepcion 
here,  say  those  men  were  the  sanest  of  their 
time.  They,  their  architects,  and  their  artists 
support  this  city  to-day.  I  don't  know  how  the 
taxes  could  get  paid  without  the  money  you 
travelers  bring.  The  cathedral  is  the  thing  that 
draws  you,  and  the  pageants  and  fiestas  —  they 
have  all  grown  up  out  of  it,  are  part  and  parcel 
of  it.  The  *  monument '  of  those  '  madmen ' 
is  the  Heart  of  Seville.  I  wish  we  had  a  few  such 
lunatics  at  home.  They  only  thought  about  build- 
ing the  house  of  God.  We  waste  ourselves  in 
inventing  ingenious  devices  for  heating  and  light- 
ing the  churches  of  men,  and  let  slip  the  great 
opportunity!" 

We  were  walking,  while  Pemberton  poured  out 
his  vehement  torrent  of  talk,  through  a  narrow, 
twisting  calle,  innocent  of  sidewalks,  between  tall 
Morisco  houses  with  openwork  gates,  catching 
tantalizing  glimpses  of  patios  where  roses  riot, 
fountains  sing,  cedars  whisper.  If  there  be  jealous 
iron-bound  doors  in  gracious  Seville,  like  those  of 
grim,  old  Moorish  Ronda,  they  stand  hospitably 
ajar.  As  we  turned  a  corner,  Pemberton  stopped 
us  with  a  gesture : 

"  Look,"  he  said,  "  the  Giralda!  " 

Across  a  plaza  where  fringed  palms  rustle,  at  the 
end  of  a  calle  still  in  faint  lilac  shadow,  stood  a 


62        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

tall  square  tower  of  tenderest  rose  color.  The 
Giralda,  once  the  minaret  of  old  Abu  Yacob's 
mosque,  dominates  Seville  as  the  Giglio  of  Giotto 
dominates  Florence,  by  its  imperial  right  of  beauty. 
The  bronze  Victory  on  the  summit  turned  lightly 
with  the  breeze;  her  Roman  helmet,  her  standard, 
and  the  olive  branch  in  her  hand  sharply  etched 
against  the  fiery  blue  sky.  In  the  belfry  the  old 
green  bells  — all  Christians  baptized  —  San  Miquel, 
el  Cantor,  Santa  Maria,  la  Gorda,  swung  to  and 
fro,  calling  the  people  to  prayer  as  their  prede- 
cessor, the  muezzin,  once  called  them. 

"It  is  very  late,"  murmured  Concepcion.  She 
spoke  slowly,  distinctly;  I  understood  her  then 
and  after.  My  Spanish  was  "  coming  back  to 
me : "  at  sixteen  I  could  chatter  like  a  magpie  in 
West  Indian  Castilian.  We  hurried  on,  losing 
the  Giralda  to  find  it  again  standing  like  a  tall 
sentinel  beside  the  cathedral.  This  was  our 
first  meeting  with  Gothic  architecture  in  Spain. 
The  pure  lines  of  pointed  window  and  door,  the 
airy,  flying  buttresses,  the  graceful  parapet  crown- 
ing the  roof  rose  stately  above  us,  solemn  and 
inspiring,  a  very  gospel  carven  in  warm  gray  stone. 
*  The  cathedral  is  the  Heart  of  Seville,"  said 
Pemberton,  "  it  is  a  unique  thing.  No  church  in 
Christendom,  no  Greek  temple  or  Buddhist  shrine 
can  compare  with  it.  Not  because  it  is  the  largest 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  63 

Gothic  cathedral  and  the  third  largest  church  in 
the  world,  but  because  it  has  breath,  because  it 
is  alive."  -v.,, 

An  aged  beggar,  clean  and  respectable,  lifted 
the  heavy  leathern  curtain  that  hung  over  the  door. 
"  Una  limosna  por  el  amor  de  Dios"  he  whispered. 
Concepcion  dropped  a  perro  chico  (literally  a  small 
dog,  a  copper  coin  worth  one  cent)  into  his  trem- 
bling old  hand. 

"  Dios  se  lo  paga  a  V."  said  the  beggar,  a  neat, 
self-respecting  mendicant  whose  voice  lacked  the 
whine  of  Italy.  God  himself  will  pay  it  to  you! 

In  the  rich,  dusky  spaces  of  the  nave,  near  the 
puerta  mayor,  a  marble  slab  is  let  into  the  pave- 
ment. Carved  upon  the  slab  are  the  familiar 
device  of  the  three  brave  caravels  and  the  proud 
motto,  "d  Castillo,  y  a  Leon,  mundo  nuebo  die  Colon" 
(  This  is  the  tomb  of  that  good  son,  Ferdinand 
Columbus,"  said  Pemberton.  A  cord  tightened 
round  my  heart.  "  That's  a  link  with  the  past 
that  holds,  isn't  it?" 

From  that  moment  it  seemed  as  if  we  all 
caught  fire  from  Pemberton,  saw  through  his  eyes, 
felt  with  his  intensity  of  feeling.  The  sweep- 
ing aisles,  the  steadfast  columns,  the  soaring 
arches  of  that  cathedral  seemed  elemental  things, 
like  their  prototypes,  the  forest  lanes,  the  giants  of 
the  primeval  wood.  We  could  almost  feel  the 


64        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

spring  of  pine  needles  underfoot,  smell  the  resin, 
see  the  sunlight  striking  through  the  tops  of  tall 
pines  swaying  together,  arching  the  forest  path. 

"  The  coro,  the  distinguishing  feature  of  Spanish 
cathedrals  —  it  is  like  a  chapel  set  down  in  the 
middle  of  a  church  —  interferes  less  with  the  im- 
pression of  the  whole  building  at  Seville  than  in 
any  other  cathedral  we  saw.  In  the  outer  aisles, 
which  are  free  of  the  coro,  you  have  an  unin- 
terrupted view  of  the  entire  length  of  the  building, 
and  can  realize  its  sublime  proportions,  get  a  sense 
of  the  harmony  of  the  whole;  the  ease  with  which  the 
vast  columns  uphold  the  roof,  and  divide  the  whole 
space  into  its  proper  parts.  In  itself,  the  coro  is 
like  an  exquisitely  wrought  gem  in  a  chaste  and 
simple  setting.  It  is  shut  off  from  the  nave  on  the 
side  of  the  puerta  mayor,  by  a  marble  fa9ade 
containing  fine  bas-reliefs,  and  a  painting  of  the 
Virgin  by  Francesco  Pacheco,  father-in-law  and 
teacher  of  Velasquez.  On  the  side  towards  the 
capilla  mayor  and  the  high  altar,  the  coro  is  isolated 
by  a  magnificent  wrought-iron  screen  where,  high 
up  in  groups  of  threes,  hang  the  golden  mass 
bells.  Around  the  interior  of  the  coro  runs  a 
double  row  of  choir  stalls,  marvels  of  wood  carving, 
in  part  grotesque,  where  the  carver's  fancy  ran 
riot  and  reproduced  the  faces  of  the  men,  beasts, 
and  devils  that  had  haunted  his  childish  dreams. 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  65 

Those  goblin,  demon  heads  are  carved  low  down, 
where  the  hand  rests,  the  knees  push.  They  are 
worn  away,  polished  smooth  by  the  rubbing  of 
the  palms  and  the  calves  of  generations  of  monks. 
Safe  above,  where  the  uplifted  eye  strikes,  are 
the  heavenly  visions,  —  angels,  saints,  prophets,  the 
Virgin  in  glory,  fresh  as  the  day  old  Nufro  Sanchez 
carved  them.  In  the  middle  of  the  coro  stands  the 
tall  facistol  holding  the  yellow  vellum  music  books 
open  at  the  page  where  the  monkish  illuminators 
painted  their  most  beautiful  miniatures. 

*  There's  Villegas's  picture,"  J.  whispered,  as 
we  passed  the  coro,  "  the  old  choirmaster  holding  up 
his  baton,  scolding  the  choristers.  I  know  every 
inch  of  this  church;  there's  not  a  corner  he  has  not 
painted." 

"  And  how  he  has  painted  it!  "  sighed  Pember- 
ton;  "  as  a  man  paints  the  portrait  of  his  mother. 
How  you  feel  the  artists,  dead  and  alive,  who  have 
worked  here;  that's  part  of  the  fascination  of  the 
place." 

"  Put  the  camp  chairs  there,"  said  Concepcion. 
She  had  found  us  the  perfect  position,  between  the 
coro  and  the  capilla  may&r.  "  Did  he  tell  you 
that  screen  is  gilded  with  the  first  gold  that  came 
from  the  Americas  ?  " 

The  ship  that  brought  that  first  gold  must  have 
been  the  size  of  the  Mayflower,  from  the  amount 


66        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

of  "  first  gold  "  it  is  supposed  to  have  brought  to 
Spain. 

There  was  no  crowd,  only  a  few  women  dressed; 
like  Concepcion,  all  in  black;  some  poor  bodies, 
a  sprinkling  of  tourists,  and  one  brown  Franciscan. 
The  sunlight  pouring  through  the  painted  window 
of  the  Assumption  stained  the  nearest  columns 
blood-red,  sapphire,  emerald.  In  the  coro,  sombre 
and  rich,  the  crimson  and  scarlet  cloaks  of  the  old 
canons,  sitting  slumbrous  in  the  stalls,  glowed 
like  jewels  in  the  dusk.  Grouped  in  couples 
about  thefacistol  were  the  choir  boys,  their  black- 
letter  scores  held  between  them.  The  high  altar 
of  the  capilla  mayor  was  covered  by  a  thick,  White 
Veil,  that  hung  from  the  groined  roof  to  the  floor. 
Two  by  two  the  tonsured  acolytes  in  long  purple 
gowns,  with  tassels  of  gold  and  violet,  prepared 
for  the  service,  dressed  the  pulpits,  laid  ready  the 
missals.  The  three  officiating  priests  appeared, 
each  preceded  by  a  pair  of  altar  boys  in  scarlet  and 
ivory,  carrying  silver  candlesticks  twice  as  tall  as 
they.  The  priest  at  the  middle  pulpit  was  a  big, 
powerful  man,  with  a  fine  resonant  voice.  His 
intoning  of  the  gospel  was  masterly;  Concepcion 
said  the  finest  in  Seville,  if  not  in  Spain.  The  old 
priest  with  the  delicate,  spiritual  face,  like  a  wax 
mask  with  jewel  eyes,  and  the  high  treble  voice, 
must  have  been  as  good  at  intoning  in  his  day. 


67 

The  little  boys  who  held  the  candles  close  for  his 
old  eyes  to  see,  leaned  towards  him  with  a  pleasant, 
human  tenderness.  It  was  easy  to  see  there  was 
love  in  their  service. 

"  Et  posuit  eum  in  monumento"  the  old  priest 
quavered  out  the  last  words  of  the  story,  as  it  is  told 
by  Luke;  the  three  celebrants  left  the  altar  with 
much  ceremony  of  book  and  bell  and  kiss  ecclesi- 
astical, and  took  their  stand  before  the  white  veiled 
altar;  the  purple  acolytes  swung  their  gold  censers 
till  we  saw  the  glowing  coals;  the  smoke  of  frankin- 
cense and  spice  rose  up  in  clouds.  There  came  a 
moment  of  strained  silence.  The  only  sound  was 
the  clinking  of  the  censer  chains.  The  air  be- 
tween priests  and  people  was  thick  and  blue 
with  incense. 

Brrrrrrrrrrm,  bnTrrrrrrrrm !  The  silence  was 
shattered  by  a  loud  clap  of  thunder,  another  and 
another,  as  if  a  fierce  tempest  had  sprung  up  out- 
side. While  the  thunder  rolled  and  echoed  through 
the  aisles,  the  White  Veil  was  rent  from  top  to 
bottom,  fell  to  the  ground,  and  disappeared  as  if 
by  magic.  In  its  place  hung  the  Black  Veil. 
Before  this  stood  in  studied  attitudes  the  big  priest, 
the  old  priest,  and  a  little  priest.  The  brown 
Franciscan  kneeling  by  the  great  tenabrium  had 
thrown  back  his  head  in  ecstasy. 

"  Look,"    whispered    Pemberton,    "  the    Saint 


68        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Anthony  of  Murillo;  I  will  show  you  the  picture 
in  the  baptistry;  it's  the  one  the  figure  of  Anthony 
was  cut  out  from  and  sent  to  New  York.  They 
have  put  the  piece  back,  but  the  *  joining  '  shows." 

We  came  out  of  the  cathedral  into  the  light  and 
perfume  of  the  Court  of  Oranges,  sat  down  upon 
a  sun-warmed  marble  bench,  and  looked  up  at  the 
pigeons  flitting  about  the  Giralda.  A  little  cloud 
floated  before  the  face  of  the  sun,  a  shadow  fell 
upon  the  fountain. 

"  That  fountain  where  the  women  are  gossiping 
is  the  old  Moorish  midhd,  where  the  musselmen 
washed  before  prayer,  as  I  have  seen  them  do  in 
Turkey.  Women  weren't  allowed  in  the  Court  of 
Oranges  then,"  mused  Pemberton.  "  Where  we 
sit,  the  temples  of  Astarte  and  of  Salambo  once 
stood.  It's  curious  how  you  catch  the  echoes  of 
the  older  religions  in  these  ceremonies  of  Holy 
Week.  Some  of  the  rites  were  practiced  before 
Rome  was.  The  mosque,  the  Moors  who  wor- 
shipped there,  seem  things  of  yesterday,  in  com- 
parison." 

"  Almost  of  to-day,  that  cry,  that  man  are  more 
than  half  Arab." 

"  Agua,  aguafresca!  "  The  cry  twanged  of  the 
Orient.  The  water  seller,  lean  and  brown,  with 
impenetrable  black  velvet  eyes,  turned  into  the 
courtyard.  He  was  dressed  all  in  white,  with 


ENTRANCE   TO   COURT   OF    ORANGES,   SEVILLE. 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  69 

odd,  hemp-soled  shoes, — a  grave  man  who  offered 
water  from  his  clean  cup,  then  passed  on  his  way, 
his  cry  growing  faint,  fainter,  till  it  was  drowned 
in  the  clangor  of  el  Cantor,  the  great,  green,  bronze 
bell  of  the  Giralda. 

The  afternoon  of  Holy  Wednesday  found  us  in 
the  Plaza  de  la  Constitucion.  Before  the  florid 
fa9ade  of  the  Casa  de  Ayutamiento  a  grand  stand 
had  been  built.  In  the  center  was  a  dais  hung 
with  crimson  velvet,  garlanded  with  flowers.  Under 
a  gold  embroidered  canopy  stood  three  gilded 
thrones. 

"  For  the  King,  the  Queen  Mother,  and  the 
Infanta  Maria  Teresa,"  Concepcion  explained. 
Opposite,  across  the  plaza,  Pemberton  pointed 
out  the  Audienza,  a  handsome  Renaissance  build- 
ing, over  whose  door  were  the  arms  of  Charles  V, 
the  Pillars  of  Hercules  with  the  old  motto  bor- 
rowed from  the  old  hero,  ne  plus  ultra.  A  marble 
column  shows  where  the  public  executions  once 
took  place.  The  plaza,  scene  of  tournaments, 
bull-fights,  and  carnival  fetes,  was  crowded  by 
those  who  could  afford  the  best  seats  for  the  pro- 
cessions of  penitence,  the  famous  pageants  of 
Holy  Week.  The  audience  assembled  in  twos  and 
threes,  the  dark,  full-bosomed  Andalusian  women, 
with  fan  and  mantilla,  the  men  in  uniform  or 
afternoon  dress.  In  a  neighboring  box  sat  a 


70        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

young  girl   with   a    lovely   oval    face,   masses   of 
wavy  black  hair,  and  eyes  like  cool,  brown  agates. 

'  That  is  Luz,"  said  Pemberton,  "  called  the 
prettiest  girl  in  Seville."  He  looked  at  Con- 
cepcion  as  he  said  it. 

'  There  is  a  woman  who  is  as  beautiful,"  I  said, 
truthfully,  and  knew  that  Pemberton  was  my 
friend  for  life. 

Luz  had  many  visitors  (the  seats  in  her  box  were 
never  empty),  they  came  and  went  like  moths 
about  a  candle.  One  remained,  a  monk  in  a  brown 
habit,  the  Franciscan  of  the  cathedral.  In  spite 
of  his  rope  girdle,  his  bare  sandaled  feet,  he  had 
once  belonged  to  that  world  of  fashion  where  Luz 
rules,  and  where  he  was  still  at  home. 

A  fanfare  of  trumpets  rang  out  above  the  babble 
and  the  laughter.  Fans  were  closed,  flirtations 
broken  off.  Luz  turned  in  her  seat;  all  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  corner  where  the  Calle  de  Serpientes 
turns  into  the  plaza.  Down  the  narrow  street, 
out  into  the  full  light  of  the  square,  rode  a  troop  of 
resplendent  cavalry, —  white  Andalusian  horses 
with  delicate,  high-stepping  feet,  men  who  sat 
straight  in  the  saddle,  in  spite  of  rich  trappings 
and  gorgeous  uniforms.  The  penitentes  followed, 
sombre,  masked  men  in  long,  purple  velvet  gowns, 
the  train  folded  over  the  arm,  showing  violet  silk 
stockings  and  silver-buckled  shoes.  From  their 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  71 

tall,  pointed  caps  hung  down  the  antefaces  covering 
the  entire  head,  falling  low  upon  the  breast: 
through  the  eyeholes  one  caught  the  flash  of  dark 
eyes.  In  their  gloved  hands  they  carried  silver 
staffs  of  office  ten  feet  high.  Behind  walked  the 
Nazerenos.  The  foremost  carried  a  large  cross; 
the  others,  standards  of  the  order,  or  flaming 
torches  that  smoked  and  flickered  as  they  walked. 
Before  the  penitentes  passed  in  front  of  the  grand 
stand,  they  spread  out  their  trains  that  trailed 
behind  them  on  the  ground.  In  the  midst  of  these 
maskers  strode  a  band  of  Roman  centurions, — 
helmets,  cuirasses,  spears,  and  standards  with  the 
familiar  S  P  Q  R  glancing  in  the  sun.  The 
music  to  which  they  marched  had  a  melancholy 
refrain,  a  sort  of  insistant  grieving  that  knocked 
at  the  heart. 

"  The  funeral  march  of  Eslava;  you  will  know 
it  well  before  Easter,"  said  Pemberton. 

"  Ai,  ail "  A  great  sigh  breathed  by  a  thousand 
people  as  the  first  paso  came  in  sight, —  a  huge 
float  moving,  as  if  miraculously,  down  the  Street 
of  Serpents  out  into  the  plaza.  On  a  base  of 
wrought  silver,  at  the  height  of  a  man's  shoulder, 
stood  a  life-sized  statue  of  the  Virgin. 

"  Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Vittoria"  murmured 
Concepcion. 

The  statue,  of  painted  wood,  was  sumptuously 


72        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

dressed.  The  front  of  her  robe  was  of  costly  lace; 
over  this  fell  from  the  shoulders  a  train  of  black 
velvet,  two  yards  long,  heavily  embroidered  in 
gold  arabesques.  The  hair  was  real.  On  the 
head  sparkled  a  stupendous  diamond  crown. 
Slowly,  slowly  the  float  drew  near,  wrapped 
in  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  censers  of  the 
penitentes.  A  rain  of  flowers  fell  from  window  and 
balcony;  the  velvet  and  gold  baldequin  over  the 
Virgin's  head  was  almost  hidden  by  lilies  and 
roses.  At  her  feet  were  flaunting  daffodils  in 
silver  vases,  and  row  on  row  of  blazing  candles 
at  various  heights.  She  was  covered  from  throat 
to  waist  with  superb  jewels,  strings  of  pearls, 
diamonds,  and  sapphires.  Her  wrists  were  laden 
with  bracelets,  in  her  hand  she  carried  a  lace 
pocket  handkerchief.  As  she  entered  the  plaza 
a  tremendous  peal  shook  the  soft  air;  the  vast 
green  bells  of  the  Giralda  seemed  to  fling  them- 
selves like  live  creatures  towards  Mary.  The 
glitter  of  the  gewgaws,  the  glow  of  the  candles 
lighted  up  the  face,  showed  the  tears  (pearls  of 
great  price)  on  the  cheeks,  the  beauty  and  tender- 
ness of  the  expression. 

"  A  masterpiece  by  the  sculptor,  Montanes,  the 
friend  of  Velasquez,"  said  Pemberton.  In  spite 
of  all  the  frippery  of  the  dress  you  feel  the  hand  of 
the  master  sculptor  in  the  painted  statue.  The 


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THE  WHITE  VEIL  73 

loving,  tender  face,  the  feminine  outstretched 
arms  divinely  express  the  eternal  womanly. 

"  Mire,  Mire,  Vd!  el  Rey  y  la  Reina!  "  whispered 
Concepcion.  She  had  not  been  too  much  engrossed 
to  see  the  young  King  and  his  mother  take  their 
places.  The  paso  turned  slowly  as  if  on  a  pivot 
till  the  queen  celestial  faced  the  queen  terrestrial. 
The  King  uncovered  and  saluted,  the  Queen 
Mother,  Cristina  Maria,  courtesied, —  so  they 
stood  facing  each  other  for  a  single  heart-beat, 
then  the  King  left  the  dais,  walked  down  into  the 
plaza,  and  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  those 
masked  men. 

"  Don  Alfonzo  is  the  Elder  Brother  of  the 
Confraternity  of  the  Cigar  Makers,"  whispered 
Concepcion.  "  See,  he  escorts  their  patron,  our 
Lady  of  Victory,  through  the  plaza." 

To  the  mournful  grieving  of  Eslava's  dirge,  the 
Virgin  of  the  cigar  makers,  escorted  by  the  King, 
disappeared  on  the  way  to  her  station  in  the 
cathedral. 

"  Te  dea  major  eris! '"  murmured  Pemberton, 
"  so  they  carried  Salambo  through  Seville.  I 
hope  you  admired  the  dress;  it  was  new  this  year, 
a  present  from  the  ladies  of  Seville.  It  cost  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pesetas;  I  know 
because  I  helped  pay  for  it.  You  saw  there  were 
bread  riots  last  week,  not  fifty  miles  from  here? 


74        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

It's  the  old  spirit  of  Seville,  the  spirit  that  built 
the  cathedral  during  the  hundred  years  when 
Spain  was  pouring  out  blood  and  money  like 
water  in  defence  of  the  faith.  We  can  always  get 
what  we  really  want  in  Seville,  and  most  other 
places!  " 

During  the  long  waits  between  the  acts  of  the 
drama  of  the  Passion,  the  little  dramas  of  every- 
day life  went  on  all  around  us.  In  the  boxes  the 
young  people  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  the 
duennas  manoeuvred,  encouraged  the  eligible, 
frowned  on  the  ineligible.  A  slim  young  officer 
in  a  cloak  slipped  a  note  into  Luz's  hand  as  he 
passed  her  box,  and  only  the  Franciscan  saw  it. 
In  the  crowd  below,  the  flirt  of  an  orange  skirt 
challenged  beauty  in  the  grand  stand. 

"  Imperio,  the  dancing  girl,"  said  Pemberton. 
"  She's  come  home  for  the  fetes.  That  old  fellow, 
her  father,  is  the  crack  matador  tailor;  he  makes 
all  Bombito's  toggery." 

"  Mire"  whispered  Concepcion,  :< The  Lord 
dressed  in  a  handsome  tunic  of  cloth  of  silver, 
embroidered  in  gold." 

The  entry  into  Jerusalem,  a  realistic  float,  was 
passing.  It  represented  the  Master  mounted  on  an 
ass,  Peter,  John,  and  Sant  lago  kneeling  before 
him.  This  was  followed  by  a  large  paso,  illustrating 
the  Betrayal  in  the  Garden.  Peter,  sword  in 


75 

hand,  Judas  —  he  was  always  dressed  in  yellow, 
the  color  of  treachery  —  the  Roman  soldiers  as 
well  as  the  Christ,  are  all  the  work  of  Montanes. 
It  is  said  that  Montanes  while  he  was  at  work  on 
this,  often  got  up  at  night  to  look  at  it,  and  was 
once  overheard  to  say,  "  How  could  I  have  done 
anything  so  beautiful  ?  "  In  spite  of  the  Master's 
ruby  velvet  robe  and  the  tawdry  gilt  rays  behind 
his  head,  the  thing  took  hold  of  one,  the  picture 
"  bit  "  into  the  memory  plate  and  will  not  easily 
be  erased.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence  as 
the  scenes  of  the  Passion  were  presented  in  these 
wonderful  vivid  pictures,  but  as  soon  as  each 
paso  swung  by  the  grand  stand,  the  laughter 
and  flirtation  began  again.  The  tragic  paso  of 
the  Crucifixion  was  escorted  by  a  brotherhood  of 
boy  penitentes  followed  by  a  band  of  child  musi- 
cians. Directly  behind  the  cross  marched  a  tiny 
drummer  in  uniform,  beating  a  big  drum.  If  he 
was  not  a  dwarf,  he  could  not  have  been  more  than 
four  years  old. 

*  What  a  funny  little  boy!  "  murmured  Concep- 
cion,  wiping  the  tears  of  laughter  from  her  eyes. 
The  supreme  scene  of  the  Crucifixion,  the  figures 
all  by  Roldan,  the  sculptor  who  spares  no  grim 
detail  of  pain,  was  followed  by  stifled  laughter. 
The  merriment  struck  an  awful  anti-climax. 

"  Remember,"  Pemberton  explained,  "  you  are 


76        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

seeing  this  thing  for  the  first  time;  these  people  have 
seen  it  all  their  lives;  familiarity  breeds,  not  con- 
tempt, but  a  certain  callousness.  The  young 
women  are  so  strictly  guarded,  you  must  not 
blame  them  if  they  '  make  eyes '  a  little.  This  is 
one  of  their  few  chances  to  see  and  be  seen." 

"  Do  you  make  as  much  of  Christmas  as  of 
Holy  Week  ?  "  I  asked  Concepcion,  to  turn  the 
conversation.  "  Which  is  the  greater  fiesta?  " 

"  There  are  three  great  fiestas  of  the  Church," 
she  answered,  "  but  Christmas  is,  undoubtedly, 
the  greatest.  There  is  a  saying,  '  Who  does  not 
fast  on  the  vigil  of  Christmas  is  either  a  Turk  or  a 
dog.'  This  is  true  for  people  of  our  religion,  for 
at  midnight  the  Nino  Jesus  was  born.  I  do  not 
know  how  it  is  with  you,  for  we  are  Catholics  and 
you  are  Christians." 

"  In  what  does  the  difference  lie  ?  " 

"  In  the  manner  of  baptism.  You  are  baptized 
all  over  in  a  great  vat  with  water  only;  we,  with 
water,  oil,  and  salt  that  is  put  in  the  mouth.  There 
are  also  other  ceremonies, —  there  is  the  godmother 
who  holds  the  candle." 

"  What  are  the  Christmas  services  like  ?  " 

"  Ah,  you  must  return,  if  only  to  see  the  dancing 
of  the  seises  in  the  cathedral.  I  am  told  this  can 
be  seen  only  at  Seville.  The  seises  are  boys, 
who  wear  curious  dresses  and  long  blond  curls. 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  77 

It  is  an  ancient  custom, —  my  husband  says,  in 
memory  of  the  Israelites  dancing  before  the  ark, 
but  I  think  differently." 

"  At  one  time  there  was  an  effort  to  break  up 
the  dance  of  the  seises,"  Pemberton  interrupted. 
"  Some  busybody  complained  to  the  Pope  that  it 
was  a  heathenish  thing.  The  result  of  the  med- 
dling was  a  papal  bull  ordering  that  the  dancing 
should  stop  when  the  dresses  were  worn  out.  That 
was  long  and  long  ago;  the  dresses  have  not  worn  out 
yet.  They  are  renewed  a  piece  at  a  time,  one 
year  a  sleeve,  another  year  a  cap,  so  the  day  has 
never  come  when  they  are  completely  outworn. 
Our  seises  still  dance  at  Christmas,  Corpus 
Christi,  and  the  feast  of  the  Conception  —  that's 
my  wife's  fiesta,  you  know." 

*  The  Christmas  ceremonies  in  the  villages  are 
also  interesting,"  said  Concepcion.  "  I  once  saw 
a  procession  when  the  Nino  Jesus  was  carried 
through  the  streets.  It  was  a  very  large  image, 
the  size  of  a  big  baby.  It  had  a  beautiful  head, 
and  was  nicely  swaddled.  One  Christmas  as  they 
were  carrying  him  on  his  procession  (this  was 
years  and  years  ago),  there  was  a  quarrel  in  the 
crowd  and  one  man  stabbed  another.  The  Nino 
Jesus  grew  pale  and  turned  his  head  on  one  side, 
so  that  he  might  not  see  that  dreadful  sight.  He 
has  remained  in  that  attitude  ever  since.  I  myself 


78        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

have  seen  the  Nino.  Yes,  it  was  a  wonderful 
happening.  It  is  a  much  venerated  image  and  has 
always  remained  in  the  care  of  the  good  Franciscan 
monks." 

Concepcion  saw  that  I  was  interested,  that  Pem- 
berton  was  busy  explaining  things  to  the  others,  and, 
out  of  the  immense  goodness  of  her  heart,  she  went 
on  to  speak  to  me  of  religious  matters. 

"  I  have  always  heard  it  said,"  she  began,  "  that 
there  are  seven  religions." 

"I,  too,  have  heard  it,  indeed,  my  pastor  has 
written  a  book  on  the  subject;*  can  you  tell  me 
their  names  ?  " 

"  Not  all  of  them.  There  are  Catholics,  Chris- 
tians, and  those  who  worship  Mahomet.  There 
are  the  Israelites, —  they  have  the  strangest  religion ! 
They  worship  a  calf's  head.  In  their  church  they 
put  on  the  queerest  garments,  gather  round  a  great 
calf's  head  in  the  middle,  and  sing  such  a  curious 
hymn,  '  Wow,  WTow ! '  It  sounds  like  that.  It 
would  make  you  laugh,  only  they  will  not  let  you 
into  the  synagogue,  and  if  you  do  just  manage  to 
peep  in,  they  drive  you  out." 

I  told  her  of  the  wailing  of  the  Jews  outside  the 
wall  of  Jerusalem,  hoping  to  rouse  some  sympathy 
for  them,  but  Concepcion  could  feel  none. 

"  Though,"  she  acknowledged,  "  our  Lord  was 

*James  Freeman  Clarke's  "  Seven  Great  Religions." 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  79 

an  Israelite.  He  did  not  become  a  Catholic  till 
he  was  thirty-three  years  old,  when  He  had  Him- 
self baptized  by  San  Juan  Battisto.  Before  that 
He  occupied  Himself  with  preaching  His  religion." 

I  asked  Concepcion  which  of  the  saints  was  her 
especial  patron. 

'  The  blessed  saints  are  all  very  good,"  she 
answered,  "  but  I  myself  do  not  put  much  de- 
pendence on  them.  I  place  all  my  hopes  on  the 
Virgin." 

As  Concepcion  talked,  the  sun  went  down;  long 
shadows  fell  across  the  plaza.  The  pale  rose- 
colored  Giralda  glowed  a  deeper  pink  in  the  sunset, 
and  then  faded.  The  new  moon  came  up  in  the 
faint  lavender  sky  and  hung,  a  golden  scimitar, 
the  evening  star  beside  it,  over  the  tower.  In  the 
minaret  where  the  muezzin  once  cried  his  shrill 
"  Allah  U  Allah"  San  Miquel  and  el  Cantor, 
rocked  and  pealed,  saluting  each  float  as  it  passed. 

"  See,  the  crescent  and  the  star  over  the 
Giralda,"  said  Pemberton;  "  the  cross  gleams 
red  on  the  cathedral.  Mary  reigns  in  Mahomet's 
place,  and  her  robe  is  worked  in  the  arabesques 
of  the  Moors." 

Walking  home,  we  came  upon  a  paso  at  rest  in  a 
side  street.  The  velvet  hangings  that  fall  from  the 
base  to  the  ground  were  parted.  We  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  hidden  motive  power,  twenty-five 


80        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

or  thirty  men,  with  quaint,  padded  turbans  on 
their  heads,  the  ends  hanging  down  and  covering 
the  shoulder.  The  water  seller  in  his  white  gar- 
ments was  in  attendance.  He  filled  and  refilled 
his  glass,  passing  it  to  the  thirsty  bearers,  who 
drank,  and  mopped  their  faces  silently.  The 
masked  penitentes  stood  at  ease,  fanning  them- 
selves, the  Nazerenos  trimmed  their  torches. 

"  Vamos!  "  The  leader  struck  the  ground  with 
his  silver  staff;  the  velvet  hangings  fell  in  place 
(the  embossed  pattern  was  so  contrived  that  the 
air  holes  were  invisible),  and  the  heavy  paso 
moved  steadily  down  the  calle  on  the  heads  and 
shoulders  of  those  hidden  men. 

In  the  processions  of  Holy  Thursday  and  Good 
Friday  afternoons,  the  mysteries  of  the  Passion 
were  represented  again  and  again  with  endless 
variations.  The  pasos  seemed  to  grow  more 
splendid,  the  dresses  and  accessories  more  lavish. 
The  brotherhoods,  called  hermandads  or  cofradias, 
have  charge  of  the  floats,  called  pasos  or  andas, 
the  statues,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the 
pageants.  There  is  a  certain  rivalry  between 
them;  some  excel  in  one  particular,  some  in 
another.  One  of  the  treasures  I  remember  was 
a  huge  and  very  beautiful  crucifix  of  tortoise  shell 
and  silver.  The  dresses  of  penitentes  and  Naze- 
renos were  never  alike;  some  were  in  white  with  blue 


THE  WHITE  VEIL  81 

masks,  some  in  black  and  silver.  They  all  followed 
the  same  plan,  the  head  and  face  were  so  disguised 
that  it  was  impossible  to  recognize  the  man  in  the 
penitent's  dress.  The  Hermandad  of  Nuestro 
Padre  Jesus  de  la  Passion,  founded  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  is  the  oldest  brotherhood.  In  its  early 
days  the  Hermanos  de  Sangue  scourged  themselves 
as  they  walked  barefoot  through  the  streets. 
Those  who  carried  the  torches  were  distinguished 
from  the  flagellants  by  the  title  Hermanos  de  Luz. 
"  Brothers  of  light,"  Pemberton  translated  it. 
"  Who  would  not  be  glad  to  deserve  such  a  title  ? 
To  be  a  true  '  Brother  of  light! '  " 


IV 
THE  BLACK  VEIL 

Tres  jueves  hay  en  el  ano  Three  Thursdays  in  the 

year 

que  relumbran  mas  que  el  Shine  brighter  than  the 

sol;  sun; 

Corpus  Christi,  Jueves  Corpus     Christi,     Holy 

Santo,  Thursday, 

y  el  dia  de  la  Ascen-  And  the  day  of  theAs- 

cion.  cension. 

"TTARK,  Pan  pipes!"  said  J.,  "don't  you 
JL  JL  hear  that  lovely  thin  music  of  the  shep- 
herd's flute  ?  " 

"  Here  in  Seville  ?     Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  All  things  are  possible  when  you 
are  living  half  in  the  tenth  century,  half  in  the 
twentieth!  " 

The  sylvan  melody,  shrilling  louder,  pierced  the 
city's  drone.  At  our  gate  the  piper  paused  and 
played  his  little  tune  again.  He  was  a  tall  young 
man  with  a  bold  eye  and  a  gay  lilt  of  the  head. 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  83 

His  blue  apron  was  tucked  under  his  jacket,  he 
wore  a  red  rose  behind  his  ear.  There  was  some- 
thing free  and  debonair  about  him  that  spoke  the 
youth  of  the  world;  his  music  stirred  the  blood. 
I  could  have  followed  him  and  his  pipe  through  the 
streets  without  a  thought  of  the  business  of  the  day. 

"  A  wandering  knife  grinder  from  La  Mancha," 
said  J.,  pulling  out  his  sketchbook.  "  Find  some 
scissors  or  something  for  him  to  sharpen.  Can't 
you  keep  him  busy  a  moment,  while  I  try  to  draw 
him?" 

He  would  not  stay;  you  cannot  deceive  a  Man- 
chegan.  He  saw  at  a  glance  there  was  "  nothing 
doing  "  for  him  in  our  patio;  sounded  his  flute  and 
went  lightly  on  his  way,  his  wheel  at  his  back. 
If  knives  were  to  grind,  he  was  ready  to  grind  them 
even  on  a  fiesta  grande  like  Holy  Thursday. 

Before  his  music  was  out  of  earshot,  Concepcion 
appeared  at  the  gate,  a  pink  japonica  in  her  hair, 
her  fan  the  same  color,  a  shade  darker.  Behind 
her,  like  a  tall,  thin  shadow,  came  Pemberton. 

"  Another  fan  ?  Do  you  never  carry  the  same 
twice  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  has  to,  poor  child,"  said  Pember- 
ton. "She  possesses  only  fifty-five  fans;  Luz,  I 
hear,  owns  three  hundred  and  fifty.  You're 
feeling  fit,  I  hope  ?  We  have  a  long  day  before  us. 
We  go  first  to  San  Lorenzo  to  see  the  monument, — 


84        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

sepulchre  you  call  it  in  Italy.  Concepcion  says 
we  shall  be  in  time  to  see  the  arrival  of  the  royal 
party.  They  must  go  on  foot  like  the  rest  of  us 
to-day;  not  a  bell  may  ring,  not  a  wheel  turn  in  all 
Seville,  this  week,  from  Wednesday  night  till 
Saturday  noon." 

Only  the  wheel  of  the  Brother  of  Light,  the  wan- 
dering knife  grinder  of  La  Mancha ! 

The  Plaza  San  Lorenzo  was  filled  with  people, 
the  trees  with  small  boys;  a  mannerly  crowd  with 
no  hoodlums;  indeed,  I  think  the  genus  does  not 
exist  in  Spain.  Soon  the  word  was  passed :  "  They 
are  coming."  The  throng  shifted,  a  way  was 
made  for  the  king's  halberdiers,  fierce  men  with 
twisted  moustachios  and  bronzed  skins,  the  very 
flower  of  the  army.  Their  duty  is  to  guard,  day 
and  night,  the  person  of  the  King.  The  civil 
governor,  Lopez  Balesteros,  followed  with  his 
aides,  and  the  Alcalde  of  Seville,  a  bulky,  puffing 
man.  His  gown  and  his  fat  made  it  hard  for  him 
to  keep  the  pace  of  those  tough,  quick-marching 
swashbucklers.  Last,  surrounded  by  his  major 
domos  of  the  week  and  his  gentlemen  of  the  cham- 
ber, the  King,  long  of  leg,  slender  of  body,  with  the 
heavy,  underhung  jaw,  the  slovenly  nether  lip  of  the 
Hapsburgs,  a  boyish  dignity,  and  a  frank  smile  all 
his  own.  He  wore  a  smart  uniform  with  a  white 
plumed  helmet. 


PORTRAIT   OF   PHILIP   II.     Coello 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  85 

"  Don  Alfonzo  has  as  many  incarnations  as 
Jupiter,"  said  Pemberton.  '  To-day  he  is  a 
major  general  of  cavalry.  Notice  that  gold  chain 
and  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what  it  is." 

The  chain,  wide  and  flat,  with  elaborately 
wrought  links,  was  flung  over  the  King's  shoulders. 
From  it  hung  a  little  gold  animal  uncomfortably  tied 
by  the  middle;  its  head  and  legs  all  flopping  down 
in  a  dreadful  way,  like  a  horse  being  hoisted  on 
board  ship. 

"  By  the  great  horn  spoon!  "  cried  Patsy;  "  it's 
the  grand  order  of  the  Golden  Fleece!  I  would 
rather  own  that  than  be  King  of  Spain." 

The  golden  toy  hung  on  the  young  King's 
breast  just  as  it  hangs  in  Alonzo  Coello's  portrait 
of  Philip  II.  Beside  the  King  walked  his  mother  — 
she  looks  a  bigot  worthy  of  Philip's  house  —  and  his 
sister,  the  Infanta  Maria  Teresa,  enough  like  him, 
in  spite  of  her  white  mantilla,  to  be  his  twin. 

Sanchez  Lozano,  Elder  Brother  of  the  Parish 
Confraternity,  Jose  Ponce,  the  archpriest,  and  half 
a  dozen  other  bigwigs  met  the  royalties  at  the  door 
of  San  Lorenzo.  The  bigwigs  made  oration, 
long  and  loud,  the  King  took  off  his  helmet  and 
mopped  his  crimson  face.  It  was  a  cruelly  hot 
day  for  the  season. 

'  They  work  the  boy  hard,"  said  Pemberton. 
"  He  was  at  the  cathedral  at  half  past  nine,  this 


86        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

morning,  and  led  the  procession  to  deposit  the 
Host  in  the  monument.  Next  he  went  to  the 
church  of  San  Salvador;  this  is  his  third  sepulchre. 
They  have  walked  him  all  over  the  place;  warm 
work  in  that  thick  uniform.  If  every  Spaniard 
earned  his  salt  as  honestly  as  Don  Alfonzo,  Spain 
would  not  be  where  she  is  to-day." 

Pemberton  heard  afterwards,  from  one  of  the 
Brothers,  what  passed  in  the  church  while  we 
waited  in  the  plaza.  The  King,  after  praying  by 
the  sepulchre,  a  flower-decked,  candle-lighted 
space  before  the  altar,  and  admiring  the  pasos  of 
the  Virgin  of  Solitude  and  the  Christ  of  Great 
Power,  talked  with  the  elder  Brother,  asked  if  he 
too,  walked  masked  in  the  procession  of  penitence. 
Sanchez  Lozano  said  that  he  did,  and  reminded 
Don  Alfonzo  that  Isabel  II,  the  King's  grand- 
mother, and  Ferdinand  VII,  his  great  grand- 
father, had  been  members  of  this  Brotherhood. 
The  King  and  the  Infanta,  without  more  ado, 
took  the  oath  and  signed  the  articles  of  the 
Brotherhood. 

"  Of  course  it  had  all  been  cut,  dried,  and 
smoked  beforehand,"  Pemberton  added.  "  Royalty 
does  not  often  have  an  opportunity  to  enjoy  the 
unforeseen!  " 

When  they  came  out  of  church,  the  King  had 
faded  to  a  healthy  pink;  we  no  longer  feared 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  87 

apoplexy  for  him.  The  gorgeous,  sweating  com- 
pany crossed  the  plaza,  the  crowd  cheered,  the 
ladies  in  the  balconies  clapped  hands  and  waved 
'kerchiefs. 

"  Come,"  said  Pemberton,  "  to  see  beauty, 
follow  in  a  monarch's  wake.  We  shall  find  the 
handsomest  women  of  Seville  inside  the  church." 

A  dozen  ladies,  their  flushed,  excited  faces  re- 
flecting the  royal  smile,  clustered  about  the  sad 
Virgin.  A  senorita,  in  black  gauze  with  pink 
camelias  in  her  hair  and  bodice,  tapped  a  silver 
money  tray  with  a  copper  coin : 

"  Did  they  desire  to  purchase  a  photograph  of  our 
Lady  ?  "  She  spoke  to  me,  she  looked  at  Patsy. 

A  nun  in  a  coarse  habit  passed ;  the  rough  woolen 
of  her  gown  caught  in  the  hem  of  the  young  lady's 
silk  dress,  and  showed  a  pair  of  little  feet  in  flesh- 
colored  silk  stockings  and  satin  shoes. 

"  At  the  feet  of  the  young  lady,"  said  Patsy, 
"  I  desire  greatly  to  purchase  a  photograph. 
Will  she  do  me  the  divine  favor  of  choosing  ?  " 

"  I  kiss  the  hand  of  the  horseman.  It  appears 
this  large  one  is  the  most  good;  it  is,  as  well,  the 
more  dear." 

The  slight  lisp,  the  smell  of  jasmines,  the  turn  of 
wrist,  as  the  pink  fan  opened  and  shut,  were  all 
familiar.  Where  —  when  —  had  we  seen  her? 
Patsy  knew:  it  was  Luz  of  the  agate  eyes! 


88        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

I  forget  what  day  it  was  that  Pemberton  and  I 
stayed  at  the  cathedral  after  mass  to  hear  the 
Archbishop's  sermon,  but  this  seems  a  good  time 
to  tell  about  it.  The  Archbishop  was  a  refined, 
silvery  old  ascetic,  who  looked  like  Cardinal 
Newman.  He  preached  as  the  students  of  the 
Theatre  Fran£ais  talk,  as  if  speech  were  first  a 
fine  art,  second  an  expression  of  thought.  Pausing 
now  and  then  from  exhaustion,  he  poured  out  an 
eloquent  appeal  to  love  the  Mother  of  God.  After 
service  the  Archbishop  was  escorted  to  the  epis- 
copal palace  near  the  cathedral,  by  a  sacristan, 
carrying  a  silver  mace,  another  with  a  tall,  double 
cross,  and  six  haughty  young  priests  in  new  purple 
silk  gowns. 

"  Do  you  notice,"  asked  Pemberton,  '''  the 
difference  between  the  Italian  and  the  Spanish 
priests  ?  The  Italian  looks  at  you  sidelong,  when 
you  are  not  looking;  sizes  up  your  feeling  about  him 
and  his  church.  Your  Spaniard  is  a  bird  of  a 
different  feather;  he  doesn't  give  a  maravedi  what 
you  think  of  him.  You  are  on  trial,  not  he.  The 
only  question  is,  are  you  what  you  should  be? 
That  he  is,  there  can  be  no  perad venture." 

We  joined  the  crowd  of  women  and  beggars 
following  the  Archbishop  in  his  fine  violet  robe, 
scarlet  moire  skull-cap,  and  amethyst  cross.  A 
wild-eyed  woman  with  a  bruised  face  threw  herself 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  89 

at  his  feet,  holding  up  a  despairing  hand  as  if  in 
appeal.  Tired  and  feeble,  the  old  man  paused 
patiently,  and  said  some  words  of  fatherly  comfort. 
She  kissed  the  great  sapphire  on  his  transparent 
old  hand  and  drew  back  weeping,  as  if  ashamed. 

"  The  heart  of  man  changeth  not,"  said  Pem- 
berton.  "  In  the  days  of  the  Inquisition  there 
were  priests  tender-hearted  as  the  Archbishop.  He 
could  not  send  a  cat  to  torture  or  the  stake.  That 
big  priest,  with  the  brutal  jaw,  the  one  who  limps, 
looks  cruel  as  Torquemada;  he  would  condemn  a 
man  to  la  Parra  (the  dungeon  in  the  Bishop's  Pal- 
ace over  there)  as  quick  as  winking  —  if  he  could !  " 

The  shadow  on  the  sun-dial  over  the  palace  door 
pointed  to  twelve.  We  followed  the  women  into 
the  handsome  courtyard,  hung  with  blue  and  striped 
hangings,  and  watched  the  Archbishop  totter 
feebly  up  the  fine  marble  stair.  At  the  door  he 
turned  and  gave  the  episcopal  blessing,  two 
fingers  raised,  and  went  indoors  with  his  escort. 
He  was  followed  by  people  bearing  gifts  of  fruit 
and  cakes.  Four  strong  men  carried  up  a  large 
tray  of  yellow  frosted  pyramids  stuck  all  over  with 
candied  cherries. 

"  Red  and  yellow,  the  Spanish  colors,"  said 
Pemberton.  "  I  hope  Torquemada  and  the  others 
stay  to  luncheon  and  eat  up  those  pyramids;  they 
would  not  be  good  for  the  Archbishop." 


90        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

On  Holy  Thursday  afternoon,  the  ceremony 
of  the  Washing  of  Feet  was  celebrated  in  the 
cathedral.  The  King,  it  was  said,  would  take  the 
first  role;  the  Archbishop,  however,  officiated  in 
his  place.  On  a  platform  before  the  high  altar 
stood  the  benches  for  the  apostles.  The  twelve 
poor  old  men  who  impersonated  them  came  tod- 
dling in,  each  carrying  a  clean,  fringed  towel  over 
his  shoulder.  They  took  the  shoe  and  stocking 
from  the  right  foot.  One  old  fellow,  Concepcion's 
friend,  the  beggar  at  the  cathedral  door,  was  so 
infirm  that  he  could  scarcely  untie  his  shoe.  He 
persisted  bravely,  though,  and  to  him  Torquemada, 
who  assisted  the  Archbishop,  first  presented  the 
silver  basin.  The  pauper  placed  his  foot  in  it, 
Torquemada  poured  water  from  a  silver  flagon; 
the  old  Archbishop,  kneeling,  kissed  the  beggar's 
foot. 

"  Isn't  it  a  pleasant  ceremony  ?  "  said  Pember- 
ton.  "  Poor  old  chaps,  no  wonder  they  look  so 
proud.  To-day  they  have  dined  with  the  Arch- 
bishop in  his  palace,  and  those  fine  new  clothes 
are  their  very  own  for  keeps." 

The  service  was  followed  by  the  singing  of  the 
tenebrae.  It  was  growing  dark  in  the  cathedral; 
all  the  light  and  color  were  concentrated  in  the 
coro,  glowing  like  a  live  jewel  in  the  centre  of  the 
shadowy  church.  An  aged  crone,  a  battered 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  91 

derelict  on  life's  stream,  drifted  by,  touching  here 
and  there  at  altar  and  at  shrine,  as  at  so  many 
friendly  ports.  She  came  to  anchor  before  our 
Lady  of  Good  Counsel,  and  took  out  her  rosary. 
At  every  pater  nosier  she  kissed  her  beads.  Those 
pathetic,  mumbling  old  lips  must  have  had  sore 
need  of  something  to  kiss.  She  pressed  them  over 
and  over  again  on  the  cold  glass  that  covered  a  little 
chromo  of  Our  Lady  of  Good  Counsel,  set  con- 
veniently low  in  the  wall,  for  the  kisses  of  the  for- 
lorn old  lips  that  missed  perhaps  the  warm  cheeks 
of  child  or  grandchild.  Outside  the  coro,  below 
the  black  veil  that  hung  before  the  altar,  stood  the 
vast  bronze  tenebrium,  with  its  fifteen  great 
candles.  An  acolyte  with  a  long  torch  kindled 
the  candles,  and  the  first  lamentation  rang  through 
the  cathedral.  One  by  one,  as  each  pitiful  lament 
commemorating  the  suffering  and  death  of  Christ 
trailed  into  silence,  a  candle  was  extinguished,  till 
the  fourteen  symbolical  of  the  apostles  were  all 
put  out.  It  grew  darker  and  darker;  at  last  only 
the  taper  at  the  top  remained  alight  in  memory  of 
Christ,  the  unquenchable  light  of  the  world. 

Later  that  evening  we  returned  to  the  cathedral 
for  the  miserere.  The  Calle  de  Sierpes  was  filled 
with  a  holiday  crowd.  In  the  balconies  outside 
the  cafes,  at  the  street  corners,  were  groups  of 
young  and  old,  little  children,  graybeards,  and 


92        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

grandams;  during  Holy  Week  it  seemed  that  no- 
body in  Seville  went  to  bed. 

"  El  Liberal!  "  A  newsboy  offered  the  sheet, 
wet  from  the  press. 

"  Agua.  agua  fresca!  "  The  grave  water  seller 
followed  close  on  his  heels. 

"  Dos  por  uno  perro  chico,"  cried  a  correct  old 
man,  with  beautifully  curled  silver  hair  and  beard, 
selling  shoe  laces.  A  woman  who  looked  like  a 
caryatid,  with  a  basket  of  royal  purple  flags  on 
her  head,  bought  a  pair  of  laces.  A  young  girl 
with  a  dimple,  carrying  her  boots  in  one  hand  and 
two  large  dried  codfish  in  the  other,  accidentally 
jostled  me.  The  caryatid,  evidently  her  mother, 
cried,  "Cuidada!"  rather  sharply. 

"Dispense  V."  said  the  dimple,  blushing  and 
distressed  at  the  mischance. 

"  Manos  blancas  no  ofendan "  (white  hands 
never  hurt),  said  Pemberton. 

'  What  good  manners  these  people  have!  " 
I  said,  as  we  passed  on,  leaving  the  girl  still  under 
the  shadow  of  the  caryatid's  displeasure. 

"  The  finest  manners  in  the  world,"  Pemberton 
agreed. 

In  the  cathedral  flickering  torches  shone  on 
a  vast  congregation  met  to  hear  Eslava's  mis- 
erere: matadors,  gypsies,  nuns,  babies,  beggars, 
beauties  of  court  and  theatre.  Every  girl  in  a 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  93 

mantilla  looked  a  heroine,  every  lad  with  a  straight 
back,  a  hero,  in  that  witchery  of  light  and  shadow. 
From  our  places  neither  orchestra  nor  musicians 
were  in  sight,  only  solemn  columns,  long  aisles, 
and  twinkling  lamps  before  pictured  Nativity  and 
Pieta.  Two  votive  candles  were  burning  before 
Santa  Teresa,  showing  the  wax  ex-votos  of  little 
hands,  legs,  and  feet,  hanging  from  long  braids 
of  hair  around  the  shrine.  Near  the  puerta 
mayor  a  blaze  of  glory  shone  from  the  white  and 
gold  monument  over  the  tomb  of  Ferdinand 
Columbus,  where  the  Host  had  been  that  morning 
deposited  to  remain  till  the  first  mass  on  Saturday 
morning,  surrounded  by  kneeling  monks. 

"  I  fancy,"  said  Pemberton,  "  that  here,  in  the 
cathedral  where  he  was  chapel  master,  Eslava 
planned  his  miserere,  —  caught,  while  he  sat 
dreaming  at  the  organ,  the  divine  harmonies  it 
repeats." 

The  twin  organs  called  and  answered  each  other, 
the  deep  notes  thrilled  and  thundered  through  the 
aisles.  The  clear  boy  voices  scaled  the  heights  of 
song;  the  mellow  altos  held  the  middle  ground, 
the  deep  basses  welded  voices,  organs,  instruments, 
into  a  full  glorious  harmony  that  swept  the  soul. 
The  miserere  over,  one  by  one  the  great  pasos  of 
the  afternoon's  procession,  taking  on  a  new  and 
awful  beauty  in  the  dim  cathedral,  swung  slowly 


94        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

down  the  aisle,  halting  at  the  monument  on  the 
way  to  their  several  stations. 

"  This  seems  to  link  Columbus  with  the  fiestas" 
said  Pemberton,  "  and  makes  me  feel  that  I,  too, 
have  some  part  in  them, —  he  is  so  much  more  ours 
than  theirs!  " 

As  we  came  down  the  steps  of  the  cathedral,  we 
passed  the  knife  grinder  of  La  Mancha.  He  had 
taken  off  his  apron,  and  left  his  pipe  and  wheel  at 
home.  As  he  strolled  along  under  the  burning 
stars,  he  hummed  a  snatch  of  the  music  we  had 
just  heard,  and  hummed  it  correctly. 

"  Rich  and  poor,  vagrant  and  King,  there  is 
room  for  us  all  in  the  Heart  of  Seville,"  sighed 
Pemberton. 

Good  Friday 

That  night  the  King  slept  in  the  old  palace  of  the 
Alcazar.  Did  he  sleep?  In  the  gardens  the 
nightingales  were  singing  to  split  their  throats; 
palms  and  orange  trees  rustled,  fountains  whispered 
of  things  that  might  well  keep  a  lover  awake.  Here 
in  the  old  palace  of  the  Moorish  kings  lived  the 
beautiful  Maria  del  Padilla,  beloved  of  Pedro  the 
Cruel.  Here  died  the  royal  Moor,  Abu  Said, 
murdered  by  his  host,  Don  Pedro,  for  his  jewels. 
The  rarest,  the  great  spinel  ruby,  Pedro  gave  to 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  95 

Edward,  the  Black  Prince.  Henry  V  wore  it  in 
his  helmet  at  Agincourt, —  to-day  it  glows  in  the 
front  of  England's  royal  crown.  England,  always 
England!  How  often,  for  good  or  evil,  the  fates  of 
the  reigning  houses  of  Spain  and  England  have 
intertwined ! 

"  Ena,"  sang  the  nightingales;  "  Ena,"  rippled 
the  fountain, —  for  the  King  was  a  lover.  If  he 
slept  that  night  it  must  have  been  to  dream  of  the 
yellow  hair  and  the  blue  eyes  of  the  English 
princess  who,  one  happy  day,  shall  wander  with 
him  through  the  mazes,  gather  the  roses  of  that 
matchless  garden  of  the  Alcazar. 

There  was  serious  business  for  Don  Alfonzo 
that  Good  Friday  morning.  As  he  came  down 
to  the  patio  (passing  the  splendid  chamber  where 
Maria  de  Padilla  bathed,  and  where  Don  Pedro's 
courtiers  showed  their  gallantry  by  drinking  the 
water  of  her  bath),  the  drums  and  fifes  of  his 
halberdiers  sounded  the  royal  march.  Lopez 
Ballesteros,  the  Governor,  was  waiting;  with  him, 
Garcia  Pierto,  Minister  of  Grace  and  Justice. 
Preceded  by  the  halberdiers,  followed  by  the  Court, 
they  all  set  off  together  for  the  cathedral.  The 
way  was  lined  by  soldiers  with  furled  flags.  In 
the  capilla  mayor  a  throne  had  been  placed  for 
the  King;  here  he  sat  with  his  grandees  and  gen- 
erals (one  of  them  called  Pacheco,  a  descendant, 


96        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

perhaps,  of  the  old  painter,  writer,  and  familiar 
of  the  Inquisition,  who  taught  Velasquez),  and 
listened  to  the  singing  of  the  Passion.  The  great 
Crucifix  of  Montanes  was  then  uncovered,  and  the 
royal  party  moved  to  the  coro,  where  the  King 
performed  the  act  of  adoration,  and  made  his 
offering  of  an  ounce  of  gold. 

At  the  act  of  adoration,  Don  Alfonzo  was  con- 
fronted by  his  Minister  of  Justice,  carrying  a 
basketful  of  parchment  scrolls,  each  tied  with  a 
black  ribbon. 

"  Senor,"  said  the  Minister,  "  do  you  pardon  the 
condemned  felons  whose  names  are  written  here  ?  " 

"  I  pardon  them,  that  God  may  pardon  me," 
answered  the  King.  One  by  one  he  untied  the 
black  ribbons  and  retied  the  scrolls  with  white 
silk  cord. 

The  wild  woman  with  the  bruised  face  the  Arch- 
bishop had  comforted  that  day  in  the  street,  had 
forced  herself  as  near  the  front  as  the  guard 
allowed.  She  peered  between  two  halberdiers, 
watching  the  ceremony  with  desperate  eyes.  Was 
the  name  she  loved  among  the  fourteen  names 
of  felons  condemned  to  death,  written  on  those 
white  decrees  of  pardon  ?  " 

"  Did  you  ever,"  asked  Pemberton,  "  see  a 
ceremony  so  touching,  so  human,  in  the  dead 
cathedrals  of  England,  or  even  in  St.  Peter's  ?  " 


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THE  BLACK  VEIL  97 

We  left  by  the  Door  of  the  Lizard,  passing  under 
the  big  stuffed  crocodile  that  gives  the  name. 

"  See  that  horrid  beast! "  said  Concepcion. 
**  A  present  from  the  Sultan  of  Turkey  to  Alonzo 
el  Savio,  whose  daughter  he  wished  to  marry. 
I  think  our  Don  Alfonzo  will  take  nicer  presents 
when  he  starts  for  England  to-morrow." 

I  asked  if  the  people  were  pleased  with  the  pro- 
posed marriage. 

"Mad  about  it,"  said  Pemberton.  "The 
Princess  Ena  will  have  a  warm  welcome;  may  she 
bring  as  good  luck  as  Elenor  Plantagenet  brought, 
when  she  came  to  marry  Alfonzo  III  of  Castille, 
Their  daughter  Berenguela  (she  was  a  rare  one), 
joined  Leon  and  Castille,  and  practically  laid  the 
foundation  of  United  Spain.  Look  for  the  woman, 
you  know,  and  you  will  find  her  at  the  bottom  of 
most  things  practical!  " 

On  the  borderland  of  sleep  that  night,  I  was 
overtaken  and  called  back  to  earth  by  the  wail  of 
Eslava's  dirge.  I  sprang  up  and  ran  to  the  bal- 
cony to  watch  the  passing  of  a  midnight  procession. 
It  was  very  late,  the  air  was  chill,  the  stars 
pale,  the  calle  deserted,  save  for  the  penitentes 
and  Nazerenos  (hidalgos  all)  in  white  gowns, 
black  antefaces,  and  scapularies.  On  the  first 
paso  stood  the  Virgin  of  Solitude,  who,  by  rule 
of  the  order,  may  only  be  absent  from  the 


98        SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

church  of  San  Lorenzo  for  the  two  hours  after 
midnight  on  Good  Friday.  The  second  paso 
represented  Calvary.  The  body  of  the  Christ 
nailed  to  the  cross  shone  pale  and  ghastly  in  the 
torchlight;  the  footsteps  of  the  masked  men  sounded 
like  muffled  drums  in  the  funeral  march.  Before  the 
Christ  walked  a  female  penitent  representing  Santa 
Veronica :  her  hair  fell  over  her  shoulders  in  a  dark 
flood.  She  carried  in  extended  hands  the  hand- 
kerchief, whereon,  the  legend  says,  the  Master 
dried  his  face  on  his  way  through  the  Street  of 
of  Sorrows,  leaving  the  impress  of  His  features  on 
the  linen.  A  second  penitent  followed  the  cross, 
a  young  woman  all  in  white,  who  personified  Mary 
Magdalen,  carrying  a  box  of  ointment.  There  was 
something  familiar  about  this  Magdalen.  As  she 
passed,  a  rose  fell  from  a  balcony,  catching  in  her 
curls.  She  looked  up;  could  it  be  Concepcion, 
walking  so  painfully  with  bare  feet  over  the  rough 
cobbles  ? 

Sabbado  de  Gloria 

"  Vayan  Vds.  con  Dios,"  said  the  beggar  at  the 
cathedral  door,  lifting  the  heavy  leather  curtain 
for  us. 

The  black  veil  still  hung  before  the  altar,  the 
bells  had  not  yet  spoken.  Life  seemed  at  a  stand- 
still. There  was  no  present,  only  the  momentous 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  99 

past,  in  the  Heart  of  Seville  that  bright  Sat- 
urday of  Glory.  In  the  coro  a  pair  of  stooping, 
weedy  old  men — twin  brothers — with  ancient  bas- 
soons under  their  arms,  several  violins,  flutes,  and 
bass  viols,  added  their  music  to  the  voices  of  the 
choir.  There  was  an  acute  sense  of  waiting,  of  hold- 
ing the  breath  in  anticipation  of  some  great  event. 
Concepcion  was  very  silent.  There  were  dark  rings 
under  her  dovelike  eyes.  In  a  moment  all  was 
changed.  The  bells  of  the  Giralda  burst  out  in 
sudden  clamor.  Thunder  once  again  rolled  through 
the  cathedral,  the  black  veil  parted  and  fell  to  the 
ground,  revealing  the  retablo  of  Dancart.  In  this 
wonderful  altar-piece  the  sculptor  has  carved  in 
larchwood  the  story  of  the  life  whose  last  hours  on 
earth  Seville  has  been  living  over  again  during  the 
last  three  days!  It  is  all  here,  told  once  again  in 
faithful,  loving  art.  Instead  of  wandering  from 
chapel  to  shrine  to  read  it  pictured  in  marble, 
wood,  color,  miniature,  and  fine  needlework, —  an 
Annunciation  here,  a  Nativity  there,  it  is  all  here 
in  the  retablo  illustrated  by  a  series  of  marvellous 
wood  carvings.  Concepcion  studied  them  with 
me,  pointing  out  her  favorite  panels. 

"  Behold  the  blessed  Saint  Anne,  the  grand- 
mother of  God,  San  Jose,  husband  of  Nuestra  Se- 
fiora.  These  be  Peter  and  Paul, — two  of  our  saints." 

*  They    are     saints     of    us    all,"    Pemberton 


100      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

interrupted,  "  Christians  as  well  as  Catholics. 
Peter  and  Paul  pray  for  us  all!  " 

Concepcion  was  glad  of  that.  *  You  asked," 
she  said,  confidentially  to  me,  "  something  of  the 
blessed  saints.  At  the  convent  where  I  was  edu- 
cated, they  have  a  great  reverence  for  San  Jose. 
Last  year  the  nuns  were  in  much  need  of  a  house  in 
the  country  where  they  might  go  in  summer.  So 
they  tied  a  little  house  around  the  neck  of  the 
statue  of  San  Jose.  Well,  what  do  you  think? 
Last  August  a  lady  died  and  left  the  convent  her 
country  house.  Would  you  believe  it  ?  The  house 
is  exactly  like  the  little  house  the  sisters  tied  about 
San  Jose's  neck.  The  other  day,  being  in  great 
need  of  a  pig,  they  tied  a  small  pig  about  the  saint's 
neck.  That  prayer  has  not  been  answered,  but 
the  sisters  are  sure  that  they  will  have  their  pig 
before  the  month  of  Mary  is  over." 

"  Prophecies  sometimes  fulfill  themselves,"  said 
Pemberton.  "  What  Concepcion  tells  you  is  per- 
fectly true;  I  know  the  house;  it  is  just  possible 
some  one  in  the  convent  knew  it,  too.  Do  not  say 
so  to  Concepcion.  If  she  had  not  *  taken  up  ' 
with  me,  she  might,  some  day,  have  been  the 
prioress  of  that  convent." 

Domingo  de  la  Resurredon 
There  was  little  sleep  in  Seville  the   night  of 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  101 

Sabbado  de  Gloria!  The  streets  were  crowded, 
the  music  and  the  laughter  only  stopping  when  the 
Easter  bells  began  to  ring.  Under  our  windows 
three  boys  squatted  on  the  ground  playing  at  cards 
and  rattling  dice.  They  were  "flush  of  cash" ;  perro 
chicos  and  grandes  clinked  as  they  changed  hands. 

"  Cacahuete! "  cried  the  peanut  man.  The 
largest  cardplayer  bought  a  double  handful  of  nuts, 
dividing  them  fairly  with  the  other  two. 

"  Ed!  los  altramuzes!  "  The  seller  of  lupins,  a 
peasant  in  a  brown  capa,  stopped  at  the  hail. 
After  some  haggling,  the  second  sized  boy  laid 
in  a  stock  of  the  large  green  lupin  beans  the  people 
eat  at  all  odd  times  of  day  and  night.  The  chicos 
munched  their  lupins,  spat,  and  munched  again, 
their  game  of  brisca  going  cheerfully  on,  not  without 
some  discussion.  The  smallest  lad,  he  who  wore 
a  working  blouse  and  a  blue  cap,  won  heavily. 
At  the  end  of  the  hand  he  scooped  the  coppers 
into  his  pocket,  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  strolled 
jauntily  away  singing: 

"  En  los  sopas  y  amores  los  primer os  son  los 
mejores  "  (with  soups  and  with  loves,  the  first  are 
the  best). 

"  Vengo  sofocado!  "  (I  suffocate  with  rage)  cried 
the  big  boy  who  had  lost  most.  "  Maldita  sia  tu 
estampa!  "  (accursed  be  thy  beastly  portrait). 

Was  he  mean  enough  to  draw  out  of  the  game 


102      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

when  he  was  winning?  The  winner  crossed  the 
street,  loitered  outside  a  sweets  shop  opposite,  flat- 
tened his  snub  nose  against  the  pane,  and  gazed 
at  the  goodies.  At  last  he  entered  the  shop,  reap- 
pearing with  a  paper  bag  full  of  sweets  of  Jijona, 
cakes  of  almond  paste  and  honey.  The  cakes 
were  shared  equally,  the  big  boy  shuffled  the  cards, 
the  little  one  "  shook"  for  deal,  and  the  interrupted 
game  of  brisca  began  again. 

Let  into  the  wall  of  the  corner  house  was  a 
shrine  with  a  lamp  before  it.  The  light  fell  on  the 
face  of  a  pretty  girl  behind  the  iron  bars  of  the 
lower  window.  She  was  talking  eagerly  with  a 
soldier  standing  outside  in  the  street,  a  lover, 
plucking  the  hen  turkey,  as  the  saying  goes. 

Easter  morning  we  went  to  the  cathedral  by  the 
sacristy,  filled  with  kneeling  women  in  black 
mantillas.  A  long  line  of  penitents  waited  outside 
each  confessional:  as  we  came  in,  Torquemada 
slipped  into  the  one  nearest  the  door.  At  the 
altar  rail  knelt  a  row  of  communicants.  An  old 
priest  and  a  young  server  walked  up  and  down  the 
ever  recruited  line,  administering  the  communion. 
The  server  carried  a  lighted  candle,  the  priest  a 
gold  chalice  with  the  wafer.  At  each  communicant 
they  stopped,  the  priest  took  a  wafer  from  the 
ciborium,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  placed  it 
in  the  mouth  of  the  person  before  him. 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  103 

"  See  how  quiet  all  this  is,"  said  Pemberton; 
"  and  this  is  the  real  thing !  Now  for  the  cathedral, 
the  stage  of  the  church,  the  last  act  of  the  drama. 
Nowhere  in  the  world  can  you  see  so  splendid  a 
mass  as  you  will  see  to-day." 

Archpriests  and  priests  were  glorious  in  price- 
less embroidered  vestments.  Boys  and  acolytes 
must  have  been  chosen  for  their  beauty.  The 
little  fellows  were  like  cherubs;  the  elder  lads, 
like  angels.  The  boys  stood  in  groups  of  three, 
the  candles  burned  in  threes;  the  retablo  was 
lighted  by  trios  of  candles, —  the  mystic  number 
was  repeated  at  every  point.  On  the  lower  altar 
steps  stood  the  scarlet  and  ivory  altar  boys, 
each  holding  a  mighty  silver  candlestick,  so  tall 
that  the  base  of  the  candle  stood  at  the  height 
of  the  shoulder,  and  the  winged  silver  angel  sup- 
porting the  taper  rose  far  above  the  head.  From 
every  spire  of  the  great  retablo  sprang  a  crucifix,  the 
highest  towering  up  in  to  the  dim  roof.  Under  this 
crucifix  was  a  painted,  wooden  group  of  Virgin 
and  Child.  Directly  below,  in  a  straight  line,  one 
behind  the  other,  stood  the  three  celebrants  in  their 
Easter  splendor.  At  one  side  blazed  the  vast 
paschal  candle. 

"  It  is  of  the  most  fine  wax,"  Concepcion  whis- 
pered, "  and  of  the  weight  of  twelve  kilos." 

At  the  moment  of  the  elevation,  two  stiff,  gawky 


104      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

tourists,  Germans,  I  think,  stood  by,  guidebook 
in  hand,  staring  at  the  ceremony  with  no  pretence 
of  being  anything  but  spectators. 

The  Archbishop  held  up  the  wafer  in  his  trans- 
parent old  hands;  thick  clouds  of  incense  rose;  at 
every  tinkle  of  the  golden  mass  bells,  Concepcion, 
kneeling  beside  me,  crouched  lower.  A  young 
deacon  in  a  white  robe  motioned  the  outlanders 
to  kneel.  They  paid  no  attention;  he  approached 
and  whispered  what  he  had  said  in  pantomime; 
again  they  refused.  Then,  like  a  young  archangel, 
he  drove  them  from  the  place  with  his  silver  staff. 
They  shrugged  stiff,  protesting  shoulders,  and 
moved  on. 

Mass  over,  a  procession  formed.  Two  cherubs 
walking  backwards,  held  open  the  illuminated 
missal  for  the  Archbishop  to  read  the  prayers; 
followed  Torquemada  and  the  other  priests,  the 
old  canons  from  the  coro,  the  choristers,  their  long 
goffered  white  sleeves  folded  over  their  arms, 
their  black  letter  scores  held  between  them,  singing 
as  they  walked,  to  the  bassoon  accompaniment  of 
those  two  old  weedy  brothers.  Near  a  gigantic, 
faded  fresco  of  Saint  Christopher,  the  ferryman 
with  the  Nino  Jesus  on  his  arm,  they  stopped  beside 
the  tomb  of  Columbus,  a  brand  new  bronze  monu- 
ment in  the  aisle  that  makes  the  right  arm  of  the 
cross — a  place  of  high  honor.  Here  the  first  prayer 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  105 

was  recited.  We  waited  by  the  tomb,  watched  the 
procession  with  the  glittering  cross,  the  lights,  the 
incense,  the  booming  bassoons,  move  slowly  down 
the  aisle,  stopping  at  one  and  another  of  the  chapels. 

"  As  a  work  of  art  that  monument  is  simply 
impossible,"  said  Pemberton;  "  humanly,  it  means 
something.  You  catch  the  idea?  Those  four 
kings  in  armor  stand  for  Castille,  Leon,  Arragon, 
and  Granada.  In  that  sarcophagus  they  bear  on 
their  shoulders  lies  what  is  left  of  the  dust  of 
Columbus." 

A  vision  of  life's  morning  came  back  to  me! 
The  cathedral  at  Santo  Domingo  City  on  Easter 
day;  my  father,  my  mother,  and  myself  standing 
by  the  place  in  the  worn  brick  pavements  that 
then  covered  the  dust  of  the  Great  Admiral. 
There  had  been  a  mass,  with  incense  and  candles, 
and  splendid  priests,  that  Easter  in  Hispaniola, 
and  we  had  watched,  in  the  plaza  before  the 
cathedral,  Judas  burned  in  effigy! 

"  Columbus  was  born  to  wander!  "  said  Pem- 
berton. "  Even  his  poor  bones  have  no  rest. 
From  Valladolid,  where  he  died,  they  were  taken 
to  Seville;  from  Seville  to  Santo  Domingo;  from 
Santo  Domingo  to  Havana;  from  there, —  read  the 
inscription,  that  tells  the  story. 

"  Quando  la  ingrata  America  se  emancipe  de  la 
madre  Espana,  Sevilla  obtuvo  el  deposito  de  los 


106      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

restos  de  Colon  y  su  ayutamiente  eligio  este  monu- 
mento" 

"  The  sculptor  was  a  poor  artist  and  a  good 
Spaniard,"  said  Pemberton.  "  In  spite  of  the 
thing's  being  so  baroque,  taken  with  the  inscrip- 
tion, and  the  date,  1901,  it  is  moving;  it  expresses 
the  pride  and  humiliation  of  this  brave  people 
who  won  the  new  world  only  to  lose  it.  I  tell 
my  friends  here  that  the  loss  of  Cuba  and  the 
Philippines  was  the  dawn  of  a  renaissance,  the 
beginning  of  a  new  Spain.  It  was  cutting  back 
the  vine  that  had  gone  to  wood.  Now  the  sap 
runs,  there  is  new  life,  fresh  growth.  Knock- 
down blows  are  what  men  and  nations  need  to  get 
up  their  muscle.  He  said  it, —  your  father :  '  Ob- 
stacles are  things  to  be  overcome !  ' 

The  pigeons  fluttered  in  and  out  of  the  Giralda, 
careless  of  the  great  bells  swinging  to  and  fro,  and 
the  shadow  of  their  wings  wove  a  new  pattern  on 
the  face  of  the  roseate  tower. 

"  Christ  is  risen! "  The  bells  rang  out  the 
triumphant  pean.  A  shadow  larger  than  that 
cast  by  a  dove's  wing  passed  over  the  face  of  the 
Giralda. 

"  Take  Concepcion  home  with  you,"  said  Pem- 
berton, quickly,  in  English;  "  she  did  not  see  it. 
Do  not,  if  you  can  help  it,  tell  her."  He  led  the 
way  to  a  side  street,  made  some  excuse  to  his  wife, 


THE   GIKALDA,   SEVILLE. 


THE  BLACK  VEIL  107 

and  left  us.     We  took  Concepcion  home;  an  hour 
later  Pemberton  joined  us. 

'  There  was  nothing  to  do;  of  course  she  was 
quite  dead.  One  leaps  to  certain  death  from 
the  top  of  the  Giralda.  You  remember  that 
woman  with  the  bruised  face  who  spoke  to  the 
Archbishop  ?  It  was  she ;  his  name,  you  see, 
was  not  written  on  one  of  those  decrees  of 
pardon! " 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  Concepcion  appeared, 
a  black  chenille  dotted  mantilla  of  the  old  style 
over  her  head,  a  white  manton  de  mantilla  worked 
with  purple  grapes,  draped,  Andaluz  fashion,  over 
her  shoulders. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  she  cried.  Her  eyes  flashed, 
her  cool,  olive  cheeks  were  flushed.  She  smiled 
more  than  usual,  for  the  mere  pleasure,  it  seemed, 
of  showing  teeth  that  were  as  matched  pearls  on  a 
string. 

"  Are  you  ready  ? "  she  repeated.  *  Tengo 
mucha  prisa  "  (I  am  in  a  great  hurry). 

"  Ready  —  for  what, —  where  are  we  going  ?  " 

"  A  los  torros,  los  torros  (to  the  bulls) !  Did  he 
not  tell  you  ?  My  husband  has  taken  seats  for  us 
all  a  la  sombre  "  (in  the  shade). 

So  this  week  of  vigil,  penitence,  and  prayer  was 
all  a  preparation  for  the  Easter  bull-fight! 

"  I  have  seen  Bombito,  the  matador,  ride  by  on 


108      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

his  way  to  the  corrida"  said  Concepcion,  "  it  is 
time,  vamonos  a  la  collet  " 

There  was  a  disappointment  in  store  for  Con- 
cepcion; she  was  met  at  the  entrance  with  the 
announcement,  "  No  bull-fight  to-day  on  account 
of  the  picadors'  strike." 


1 


SEVILLE  FAIR 


Guadalquiver  was  a  swollen,  tawnj 
flood,  whirling  dead  leaves  and  dry  branches 
down  to  the  sea. 

"  Look,'*  said  Pemberton,  "  the  river  has  piled 
enough  firewood  against  the  piers  of  Triana  bridge 
to  keep  a  thrifty  family  a  month."  A  small  boat, 
sculled  by  an  old  fisherman  with  gold  earrings  and 
a  blue  jersey,  crept  slowly  towards  the  largest  pile  of 
brushwood  at  the  middle  pier.  "  I'm  glad  Isidro 
comes  in  for  that  bit  of  luck;  he  is  a  good  sort, 
brings  us  fish  every  fast  day,  and  doesn't  know  I 
have  a  bula  de  cruzada  and  may  eat  meat  o*  Fri- 
days. We  shall  see  him  at  the  house  soon;  when 
the  river  is  at  the  flood  we  sometimes  get  shad,  — 
an  advantage  of  living  in  Seville." 

As  he  roped  the  driftwood  to  the  stern,  the  old 
fellow  sang  in  a  high,  quavering  voice  a  popular 
copla: 

"  Antiquamente  eran  dulces  todas  las  aguas  del  mar; 
se  bano  mi  amor  en  ellas  y  se  volvieron  solas" 


110      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

(Once  on  a  time  all  the  waters  of  the  sea  were  sweet; 
My  love  bathed  in  them  and  they  turned  salt.) 

Other  women  are  praised  as  sweet,  the  Andaluz 
as  salt!  Andalusian  salt  is  the  supreme  quality, 
wit,  sparkle,  humor,  grace  combined. 

A  white  yacht,  a  fine  lady  of  the  sea,  lay  along- 
side the  river  bank  near  the  Paseo  de  las  Delicias. 
Sailors  were  busy  polishing  brass  that  shone  before, 
scrubbing  decks  already  clean  as  starched  damask. 
A  blond  viking  sitting  aft,  mending  a  sail,  sang  a 
stave  that  told  where  he  and  the  yacht  Peerless 
hailed  from. 

"  I  wish  I  was  in  Baltimore,  O,  O,  O,  O, 

A  dancing  on  the  sanded  floor  a  long  time  ago !  " 

By  the  Torre  del  Oro,  the  Buenaventura,  from 
Malaga,  a  rusty  freight  steamer,  was  taking  on 
cargo.  The  stevedores,  like  busy  brown  ants, 
trotted  to  and  fro,  stooping  under  bales  of  cotton 
from  the  Isla  Mayor  in  the  delta.  The  mole 
smelt  tarry  and  sea-faring;  looked  prosperous, 
bustling,  alive.  Watching  sailors,  stevedores,  long- 
shoremen, we  tried  to  visualize  our  emotions,  but 
alas,  the  set  pieces  of  sentimental  fireworks,  pre- 
pared beforehand,  wouldn't  go  off!  We  reminded 
ourselves  that  here,  in  this  port  of  Seville,  the 
Tribunal  of  the  Indies,  the  whole  trade  of  the 


SEVILLE  FAIR  111 

Americas  once  centred.  From  the  shadow  of  that 
old  Moorish  tower  of  gold,  the  Spanish  galleons 
sailed  for  the  new  world,  carrying  the  yeast  and 
ferment  of  young  adventurous  blood,  bringing 
back  —  a  poor  exchange  —  the  ingots  of  the  Incas. 
Alas!  No  ghost,  not  even  of  Columbus  sailing  up 
the  Guadalquiver  that  Palm  Sunday  of  his  triumph, 
could  materialize  in  that  vital  atmosphere  of  oozing 
kegs,  fish-nets,  and  oakum.  A  swart  gypsy  dropped 
a  line  into  the  river,  a  crane  flapped  across  the  sky, 
a  fish  leaped,  flashing  silver  in  the  sun;  the  wonder- 
book  of  life  was  still  to  read;  history  and  its  ghosts 
must  wait  for  old  age  and  winter  fireside. 

It  had  rained  for  three  days  and  nights,  to  the 
discomfort  of  flocks,  herds,  dealers,  breeders, 
gypsies,  and  compradores.  From  Ronda  and 
Utrera  in  the  south,  from  Huelva  in  the  west,  from 
Aguilar,  Lerida,  from  all  over  Andalusia,  the  ani- 
mals were  being  driven  in  for  the  Feria,  the  great 
animal  fair  that  follows  the  fiestas  of  Holy  Week. 

The  thrifty  ones,  early  on  the  ground,  were 
already  settled  in  the  city  of  tents  and  cottages, 
that  had  sprung  up  on  the  Prado  de  San  Sebastian. 
The  laggards  fared  badly;  the  downpour  had  made 
the  roads  worse  than  ever.  The  inns  were  crowded, 
for  even  those  who  usually  slept,  cooked,  and  ate 
in  their  covered  carts  struggled  to  get  under 
shelter  while  that  torrential  rain  lasted.  Then, 


112      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

just  in  time  to  save  the  situation,  the  sun  came 
out. 

From  the  quay  we  drove  along  the  bank  of  the 
Guadalquiver,  through  orange  groves  washed  clean 
and  smelling  of  rain,  and  olive  groves  where  the 
little,  silvery  leaves  were  still  dark  with  the  wetting. 
From  a  rise  in  the  sodden  road  we  saw  the  entire 
horizon,  felt  the  sky  like  a  fiery  blue  cup  overhead; 
at  the  edge,  where  it  rested  on  the  earth,  there  was 
warm,  colorless  light;  in  the  middle,  deep  cobalt. 
It  was  impossible,  early  as  it  was,  to  look  at  the 
sun;  there  was  not  a  fleck  of  cloud  anywhere. 
Though  the  earth  was  drying  as  quickly  as  sun  and 
soft  air  could  contrive,  the  middle  of  the  road  was 
still  a  lake  of  mud. 

"  Arre,  arrel  dog  of  a  horse! "  the  sounds 
of  blows  and  curses  shattered  the  crystal  silence. 
A  brave,  blind  horse  again  and  again  made 
a  mighty  effort,  stretching  its  lean  neck  and 
straining  its  poor  body  to  pull  a  carreta  out  of  the 
muddy  rut  where  the  wheels  stuck  fast.  His 
master  encouraged  him  by  striking  him  over  the 
head;  his  companion,  a  starved  dog,  by  snapping 
at  his  heels.  Pemberton's  hand  tightened  ner- 
vously on  his  whip,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  lay 
it  about  the  man's  ears:  Patsy  was  over  the  wheel 
like  a  flash,  and  out  in  the  muddy  road. 

"  What  a  pity,  my  friend,  your  wife  and  children 


SEVILLE  FAIR  113 

must  get  out  to  lighten  the  load,"  he  said;  "  it  is 
the  only  way;  I  have  had  great  experience  in  such 

matters.  You  help  them,  while  I "  he  had  the 

bridle  in  his  hand,  and  was  petting  the  panting 
horse  as  he  talked.  A  gaunt  woman  suckling  an 
infant  sat  in  the  back  of  the  carreta;  a  little  girl 
leaned  against  one  knee,  at  the  other  crouched  a 
boy  shaking  with  fever;  a  raven  drooped  in  a  bat- 
tered cage,  near  a  big  drum  half  hidden  by  a  heap 
of  spangled  and  velvet  rags ;  a  pair  of  castanets  and 
a  tambourine  lay  in  the  girl's  lap.  By  these  poor 
possessions,  their  tools  of  trade,  we  knew  them  for 
what  they  were. 

ic  Mountebanks,  on  their  way  to  the  fair,"  said 
Pemberton;  "  poor  things,  one  can  hardly  hope 
they  will  add  much  to  the  gaiety  of  nations!  " 

"  See  you  later,"  said  Patsy,  waving  his  free 
hand  to  us.  We  drove  on  and  left  him  haranguing, 
hectoring,  but  helping,  always  helping,  that  for- 
lorn family  offeriantes  (fairgoers). 

After  those  three  last  days  of  Holy  Week,  when 
from  one  end  of  Seville  to  the  other  we  never  met 
wagon,  carriage,  or  beast  of  burden,  it  came  like 
a  surprise  to  find  the  streets  crowded  with  all  sorts 
of  interesting  vehicles.  The  heavy  traffic  is  carried 
in  big,  picturesque  carts  drawn  by  bulls,  oxen, 
donkeys,  and  mules.  The  cattle  are  magnificent, 
especially  the  bulls,  who  answer  easily  to  the  goad. 


114      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

The  backs  of  these  draft  animals  are  shaven  in 
patterns,  the  work  of  gypsy  esquiladores.  In  the 
cold  weather  a  blanket  covers  the  shaven  part,  its 
limits  outlined  by  a  neatly  cut  border.  A  mono- 
gram, a  coat-of-arms,  even  a  sentence  describing 
the  owner's  virtues,  is  sometimes  shaven  on  the 
rump.  The  yoke  is  bound  to  the  horns  of  the  cattle, 
as  you  see  it  in  the  old  Greek  vase  pictures;  the 
beasts  pull  with  the  head,  all  the  weight  and  strain 
coming  on  the  neck.  This  has  a  fine  pictorial 
effect,  but  is  far  harder  on  the  creatures  than 
yoking  at  the  shoulders. 

An  ox  cart,  with  a  cruel  load  of  stone,  drawn  by 
two  patient,  cream-colored  bulls,  lumbered  along  on 
archaic  solid  wheels  that  shrieked  for  axle  grease. 
The  bulls,  strong,  beautiful,  worthy  to  draw  the  car 
of  Dionysius,  moved  their  heads  restlessly  from 
side  to  side.  As  the  cart  jounced  over  a  loose 
cobble,  their  poor  noses  trembled  with  pain.  A 
street  porter  stood  waiting  till  the  cart  had 
passed  to  cross  the  road.  He  carried  a  heavy 
load  on  his  back,  secured  by  a  strap  fastened 
round  the  forehead;  he  trembled,  too,  and  seemed, 
like  the  bulls,  to  be  working  at  great  disad- 
vantage. 

Pemberton  shook  his  whip  at  the  bulls.  "  Cow- 
ards," he  cried,  "  failures,  outcasts  of  the  ring; 
too  timid  or  too  kind  to  fight, —  unworthy  the 


SEVILLE  FAIR  115 

short,  merry  life  of  the  fighting  bull,  good  for 
nothing  but  work!  " 

A  blue  cart  with  ochre  stripes  creaked  by,  be- 
hind a  tandem  of  four  mules  led  by  a  white  donkey, 
all  jingling  with  little  bells,  the  harnesses  gay  with 
red  tags,  tassels,  and  brass  nailheads. 

"  Firme,  firme  macho!  "  The  muleteer,  a  jolly 
young  chap  with  a  proper  "  going  to  the  fair  " 
look  to  match  his  team,  cracked  his  long  whip 
over  their  heads.  A  dog  tied  to  the  bridle  of  a 
tiny  donkey,  almost  hidden  by  his  load  of  cab- 
bages, cleverly  piloted  the  ass  through  the  crowd; 
the  owner,  a  stalwart  woman  laden  with  vegetables, 
followed  at  a  distance. 

"  And  some  people  say  animals  can't  reason!  " 
Pemberton  exclaimed.  '  That  dog  has  got  more 
sense  than  many  men  I  know.  The  woman  is 
Costanza,  Isidro's  wife,  who  brings  us  our  vege- 
tables every  day;  that  boy  tagging  behind  is  Con- 
cepcion's  godson." 

We  were  now  close  to  the  Feria,  and  the  way  was 
crowded  with  feriantes  and  cattle. 

There  was  a  sense  of  joyous  life  in  the  air. 
Everybody  was  in  holiday  humor,  as  if  the  sun  had 
dried  all  tears,  driven  away  blues  and  vapors,  if 
such  exist  in  golden  Seville. 

"  During  the  three  days  of  the  Feria"  Pember- 
ton explained,  "  Seville  is  deserted;  life  centres 


116      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

here,  in  the  Prado  San  Sebastian;  trade,  business, 
society  are  bodily  transported  from  city  to  fair 
ground.  It's  really  a  democratic  festival;  a  great 
annual  outing  for  all  classes.  The  morning  is 
the  time  to  see  the  business  end;  the  evening,  the 
social.  We'll  begin  with  the  market,  where  the 
animals  are  bought  and  sold." 

At  the  mule  mart  business  was  brisk,  hand- 
some carriage  mules  as  well  as  pack  mules  changing 
hands  at  good  prices.  To  know  what  a  carnation 
or  a  mule  can  be,  you  must  go  to  Spain,  where 
both  grow  larger  and  handsomer  than  anywhere 
else.  There  is  a  legend  of  a  mule  belonging  to  the 
first  Don  Carlos,  over  fifteen  hands  high.  Theo- 
retically, the  mule  has  the  privilege  of  drawing  the 
royal  carriages.  Though  Don  Alfonzo  prefers  an 
automobile,  the  little  children  of  the  late  Princess  of 
the  Asturias  take  their  airing  every  day  behind 
a  spanking  four-in-hand  of  swift,  black  mules. 

Up  and  down  the  middle  of  the  Prado  San 
Sebastian  rode  the  jockeys,  showing  off  their  horses. 
A  tall,  black  stallion,  with  red  nostrils,  curvetted 
past.  The  man  on  his  back  —  he  rode  like  a 
centaur,  man  and  beast  seeming  one  piece  —  had  a 
familiar  look;  where  had  we  seen  that  ruddy  face, 
those  handsome  legs,  that  striped  blanket  before? 
The  fretting  stallion  jostled  a  white  horse  ridden 
by  a  weather-beaten  old  trader. 


SEVILLE  FAIR  117 

"  Perdone  Vd.  amigo  mio! "  said  the  young  chalan, 
lifting  his  gray  felt  sombrero.  Then  we  recognized 
the  Sibyl's  friend,  the  bridegroom  of  Ronda. 

"  No  es  nada  amigo"  answered  the  man  on  the 
white,  as  politely;  the  exhibition  of  good  manners 
was  as  fine  as  the  horsemanship. 

"  I  will  give  you  twelve  thousand  reales  for  the 
black,"  said  a  gentleman  in  a  cloak,  to  the  man 
from  Ronda. 

!<  Caballero,  if  I  could  only  afford  to  make  you  a 
gift !  Try  him,  he  has  the  perfect  paso  Castellanol" 

'  Twelve  thousand,  not  a  real  more." 

"  Antes  muerto  que  cansado!  "  (He'd  die  sooner 
than  tire.) 

*  Twelve   thousand,    not    another    maravedi." 
The  bargain  was  finally  struck,  chalan  and  cabal- 
lero  going  off  together  to  bind  it. 

*  The  pace  of  these  Andalusian  horses,"  Pem- 
berton   pointed  out,  "  is  easy  as  a  rocking-chair; 
there   is   nothing   like   it.     It   comes   from    their 
galloping  with  the  fore  feet  and  trotting  with  the 
hind.     Arabian  blood?     Ah!  there  is  the  mystery 
of  the  Cordova  breed.     Where  did  they  get  it? 
De  Soto  took  out  a  lot  of  the  stock  to  America; 
they  ran  wild  on  the  western  plains:  our  bronchos 
are    their   descendants.     Though    the    build    has 
changed,  you  recognize  the  family  traits  in  the 
American  mustang." 


118      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

The  white,  a  beautiful  fiery  creature,  with  floss- 
silk  mane  hanging  to  his  knees,  a  tail  that  would 
have  swept  the  ground  had  it  not  been  knotted  up, 
Patsy  was  convinced  must  be  an  Arabian. 

"He  looks  it,"  Pemberton  "allowed."  "The 
Arab  horse,  unfortunately,  is  not  what  it  once  was; 
it  has  been  spoiled  —  by  what,  do  you  think  ? 
The  Mauser  rifle!  In  the  old  days  a  Bedouin's 
safety  depended  on  his  horse's  speed;  to  outride 
his  enemy  and  the  reach  of  his  enemy's  spear  was 
his  prime  need.  Then  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and 
death  to  keep  up  the  breed.  The  old  order 
changeth,  even  in  the  desert.  Now,  the  Bedouins 
are  armed  with  rifles;  no  horse  can  travel  as  fast 
as  a  rifle  bullet  flies;  the  Bedouin  grows  careless, 
his  horse  deteriorates.  In  England,  where  they're 
all  mad,  there's  one  man  mad,  or  sane  enough,  to 
put  his  heart  and  his  money  into  trying  to  save 
the  noble  race  from  extinction,  the  sort  of  a  thing 
only  a  poet  like  Wilfred  Blunt  would  try  to  do." 

'  Tres,  ocho,  todos"  from  behind  a  gypsy  tent 
came  the  staccato  cry  of  the  morra  players.  Two 
men  faced  each  other,  throwing  out  the  hand  with 
a  quick  movement,  each  crying  at  the  same 
moment  his  guess  of  the  total  number  of  fingers 
shown;  a  dangerous  old  game,  ending,  too  often, 
in  a  fight. 

There  was  great  animation  in  the  pig  market; 


SEVILLE  FAIR  119 

the  prices  were  the  highest  in  years ;  the  demand  for 
sucking  pigs  was  larger  than  the  supply.  A  mag- 
nificent old  Mother  Grunt,  with  a  litter  of  black 
piglets  snuggling  about  her,  wore  the  blue  ribbon 
of  the  prize  winner  round  her  fat  neck.  The  owner, 
a  well-dressed  young  farmer,  stood  beside  the 
likely  family. 

"  May  I  have  a  photograph  of  the  pig  ?  "  I  asked. 

*  The  honor  is  great,'*  said  the  farmer,  "  but 
the  photographer  lives  far  from  here,  and  to- 
morrow I  put  the  earth  between  us." 

"  How  foolish  thou  art!"  explained  a  shrewd 
old  farmer,  carrying  a  white  lamb  in  his  arms. 
"  It  is  the  little  black  box  of  the  stranger  lady  that 
makes  the  picture."  They  all  struck  attitudes,  the 
kodak  snapped,  I  set  the  film  for  the  next  shot; 
the  farmer  wished  to  look  into  the  kodak  where  he 
thought  he  could  see  the  photograph  of  the  prize 
pig.  The  matter  was  explained  to  him,  and  the 
offer  made  to  send  him  a  photograph  when  the 
film  should  be  developed.  J.  handed  him  his 
pencil  and  note-book,  and  asked  him  to  write  his 
name  and  address. 

"  Ojcdd,  if  I  only  knew  how  to  write!"  he  sighed. 
"  It  is  greatly  to  be  lamented.  I  should  value  a 
portrait  of  my  sow;  she  is  without  perad venture  the 
finest  I  have  raised.  I  shall  not  meet  her  again, 
for  I  have  sold  her  to  a  labrador  of  Jimena." 


120       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

'  Tell  me  your  name;  I  will  write  it  in  this  book, 
where  it  will  not  be  forgotten." 

"  I  call  myself  Basilio,  name  of  baptism,  Miquel; 
name  of  father " 

"  That  is  not  necessary;  from  what  town?  " 

"  Pueblo  of  birth,  Escacena  del  Campo,  Pro- 
vincia  de  Huelva." 

Finding  us  interested  in  live  stock,  Miquel 
showed  his  other  animals,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
roped-in  corral,  where  a  bunch  of  his  sheep  stood 
hanging  their  patient  heads,  as  if  shy  to  find  them- 
selves so  much  admired.  The  merinos  were 
superb,  with  fine,  silvery  fleeces;  the  horns  of  the 
old  wether  might  have  inspired  the  Ionic  order! 
The  mere  rumor  of  such  splendid  creatures  would 
account  for  the  cruise  of  the  Argonauts.  As  hand- 
some in  their  way  were  the  small,  brown  sheep, 
with  black  faces  and  adorable,  close-curled,  black 
horns.  While  Miquel  and  J.  exchanged  views  on 
sheep,  a  seedy,  shabby  gentleman  in  shiny  clothes 
and  a  frayed  shirt  joined  us.  He  took  off  his  hat 
with  a  flourish,  and  made  me  a  deep  bow. 

"  Missis,  I  am  Renaldo  Lopez,  ex-ofeecial  de 
marina,"  he  said,  in  a  bass  voice,  deep  as  a  lion's. 
"  I  offre  my  service  to  accompany  and  visit  monu- 
ments; gib  Spanish  lessons  (spik  vero  Castellano, 
no  Andalusian)  in  pupils  resident  or  in  professor 
home,  prices  moderates."  He  recited  the  words 


SEVILLE  FAIR  121 

as  if  repeating  a  lesson.  I  thanked  him,  accepted 
his  card,  and  turned  back  to  handsome  Miquel, 
who  was  explaining  to  J.  that  besides  raising  the 
best  wool  in  the  province,  he  was  not  behind  the 
rest  of  the  world  in  the  matter  of  wheat;  he  would 
dare  say  his  was  the  best  grown  within  a  hundred 
leagues.  If  we  passed  near  Escacena  del  Campo 
we  must  stop  at  his  farm.  He  could  show  us  the 
sister  of  the  prize  pig,  whose  photograph  we  would 
remember  to  send  ?  The  poor,  shabby-genteel 
ex-ofeecial  de  marina,  could  not  believe  that 
Miquel,  grower  of  the  best  wheat,  raiser  of  the  fat- 
test pigs  and  the  finest  sheep  in  the  province  was 
more  interesting  to  us  than  he  was!  Though  he 
could  not  read  or  write,  Miquel  could  carry  on  civ- 
ilization's two  great  basic  industries  —  provide  for 
the  clothing  and  the  feeding  of  man,  and  do  it  well ! 
The  professor  of  Castilian  clung  to  us  until  an 
appointment  was  made  for  a  lesson,  then  he  de- 
parted, and  we  wandered  off  to  the  refreshment 
stands. 

A  group  of  handsome  girls  were  gathered  round 
a  huge  cauldron  outside  a  neat  booth,  from  which 
floated  a  delicious  odor  of  fried  cakes. 

"Who's  hungry?" 

"Everybody!" 

"  Soledad!  "  A  tall  girl  in  a  clean,  print  dress, 
a  scarlet  shawl  pinned  across  her  shoulders,  a 


122      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

geranium  in  her  coarse  black  hair,  answered 
Pemberton's  call. 

"  Serve  bunuelos  for  all." 

I  asked  Pemberton  why  he  had  used  the  second 
person  instead  of  the  third,  in  speaking  to  Soledad 
—  what  a  name!  It  means  solitude. 

"  It  is  the  custom.  The  poorest  Spaniard  ad- 
dresses the  richest  gypsy  as  *  thou,'  on  the  ground 
that  the  Gitano  is  the  inferior  race.  These  people 
are  bunoleras;  they  travel  all  over  Spain  from  fair 
to  fair,  frying  these  bunuelos,  a  sort  of  sublimated 
fritter,  their  specialty.  No  one  else  has  the  art. 
I  know  this  family;  the  women  are  a  good  sort; 
the  men, —  lazy  rascals!  Last  summer  they  stole 
two  of  my  sheep;  lassooed  them,  lifted  them  clean 
out  of  the  fold.  I  traced  them  to  their  camp. 
What  do  you  suppose  I  found?  Instead  of  my 
white  sheep,  two  black  sheep;  they  had  the  stuff 
all  ready,  and  clapped  the  creatures  in;  by  the  time 
I  got  there  they  were  already  dyed." 

An  elderly  woman,  vigorous,  bronzed,  with  the 
bold,  unwinking  eyes  of  the  Romany,  stood  beside 
the  cauldron  making  mysterious  passes  with  a  long 
spoon.  Soledad  waited  by  her  side  with  a  hot 
dish,  and  in  a  twinkling  a  pile  of  golden  bubbles 
was  before  us,  light,  dry,  exquisite  as  only  fritters 
fried  in  pure  olive  oil  can  be. 

"  Fried  air,  with  a  trifle  of  pastry  around  it, 


a 
n 

CO 


3 

— 
fa 


SEVILLE  FAIR  123 

is  not  exactly  filling  at  the  price,"  said  Pemberton; 
"  let  us  try  some  of  those  bocas  de  la  isla,  another 
specialty  of  the  Feria"  The  bocas  are  a  sort  of 
shell  fish  of  peculiar  shape,  tasting  rather  like  a 
shrimp.  Soledad,  watching  us  cautiously  taste 
them,  said  to  reassure  us: 

"  But  —  they  are  the  most  exqusite  —  what  a 
flavor!  They  are  the  claws  of  lobsters  that  have 
been  torn  off  and  thrown  back  into  the  sea,  where 
they  turn  into  bocas!  " 

"  Cocoanuts,  dates,  torrones  of  Alicante! "  a 
bright-eyed  Levantine,  smelling  trade,  hurried 
up  to  us.  We  bought  a  handful  of  large  dark 
Tetuan  dates,  a  green  cocoanut,  a  long  thin 
bottle  of  attar  of  roses,  and  —  a  torrone  —  a  paste 
of  blended  honey  and  almonds,  that  should  be 
reserved  for  saints,  since  none  others  can  be  good 
enough  to  deserve  it! 

Luncheon  over,  we  took  leave  of  Soledad,  and 
made  our  wav  to  one  of  the  humbler  streets  of  the 

v 

Feria  in  search  of  side  shows.  There  was  a  choice 
of  attractions,  all  of  them  decent.  In  one  tent 
we  saw  a  tame  gorilla  and  a  fat  woman;  in  an- 
other a  troupe  of  trained  fleas  shown  off  by  an 
Italian.  An  air  from  Rigoletto,  played  by  an 
orchestrion  with  drums,  horns  and  cymbals  drew 
a  crowd  of  rustics.  From  a  large  tent  came  the 
twang  of  a  guitar,  the  crack  of  castanets.  A  group 


124      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

of  saucy  gypsy  lasses  laid  violent  hands  upon  us 
Gorgios,  whose  palms,  whether  or  no,  they  were 
bound  to  read. 

"  Brazen  hussies,"  said  Pemberton  good- 
naturedly,  buying  them  off;  "  a  cut  below  those 
others,  but  virtuous, —  who  doubts  it  may  get  a 
knife  thrust  in  the  back!  " 

Outside  the  last  and  poorest  amusement  tent,  we 
found  Patsy's  mountebanks.  An  old  carpet  was 
spread  on  the  ground  before  the  tent  door; 
the  woman  in  a  spangled,  maroon  velvet  robe, 
a  gilt  filet  in  her  faded  hair,  beat  the  big  drum. 
The  raven,  with  the  aid  of  the  little  girl  and  a  pack 
of  cards,  was  ready  to  tell  fortunes.  The  man  in 
pink  tights  balanced  cleverly  on  a  rolling  ball:  the 
boy  stood  with  outstretched  arms,  first  on  the 
father's  shoulders,  and  then  climbed  dizzily  to  his 
head.  The  turn  ended  in  a  clever  somersault. 

'(  Olle,  ollel  "  the  crowd  encouraged. 

"  Que  te  hace  tr  aba  jar?  "  cried  the  mountebank, 
the  clown's  strident  voice  is  the  same  the  world 
over,  *  Que  te  hace  tr  aba  jar?  "  (What  makes  you 
work  ?) 

"  El  hambre!  "  (hunger),  answered  the  pinched 
child. 

"  Tiene  razon!  "  (he  is  right),  laughed  Miquel, 
the  farmer.  The  crowd  applauded;  a  few  coppers 
rattled  in  the  girl  s  tambourine. 


SEVILLE  FAIR  125 

We  came  upon  Patsy,  lost  since  morning, 
outside  a  booth  of  primitive  farming  tools.  The 
sickles,  the  rakes,  the  spades,  shaped  properly 
like  spades  in  a  pack  of  cards,  even  the  hoes, 
had  a  certain  rustic  beauty  that  woke  the  Adam 
in  every  boy  that  passed,  and  made  his  fingers 
itch  to  handle  them.  Patsy  balanced  a  mighty 
scythe  knowingly,  as  one  who  has  known  the 
trick  of  mowing. 

'  That  is  just  what  I  want  for  my  picture  of 
'  Time  and  the  Woman/  "  said  J.;  he  looked  with 
longing  at  the  scythe. 

"Of  course,  it  is  the  very  thing,"  said  Patsy; 
"  it  has  a  lot  of  character.  It  doesn't  look  as  if  it 
had  been  turned  out  by  a  machine  with  a  thousand 
others.  Listen  to  this  bell!  "  He  tinkled  the 
clapper  of  a  beaten-copper  sheep  bell.  "  What  a 
silver  note!  One  wouldn't  mind  being  wakened 
by  this,  when  the  cows  go  to  pasture  at  daylight !  " 

"  These  juggets,"  Pemberton  led  the  way  to  a 
booth  where  coarse  glazed  pottery  was  displayed, 
"  are  nice  in  color,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  The  green  and  yellow  bowls  are  just  the  thing 
to  put  about  the  Cornish  place  for  the  birds  to 
drink  and  take  their  baths  from,''  said  Patsy. 
*'  Let  us  have  a  lot  sent  home  with  the  scythe  and 
the  bell.  How  you  feel  the  Moorish  influence  in 
the  design, —  you  can't  get  away  from  that,  can 


126      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

you?     You    might    as    well    try    to    subtract    the 
Norman  from  the  English,  as  to  subtract  the  Moor 
from  the  Spaniard;  you  come  across  him  every 
moment,  in  the  manners,  in  the  language  —  all  the 
words  beginning  with  al  are  Moorish;  in  the  dress, — 
the  mantilla  is  the  survival  of  the  yashmak;  in  the 
sense  of  color  and  design,  that  flat,  blue  dish  is  a 
thing  of  beauty  and  absolutely  Moorish  in  spirit." 

"  I  can't  enthuse  about  it  any  more  than  I  could 
about  the  Alhambra,  the  Alcazar,  or  anything  else 
that  recalls  the  presence  of  those  brutes  in  Spain," 
interrupted  a  small,  keen-eyed  man  who  had  been 
listening  to  the  talk. 

Patsy  was  the  first  to  recover  his  speech. 

"  That  is  a  new  point  of  view  and  very  inter- 
esting," he  said.  "  Does  all  Oriental  art  affect 
you  so,  or  only  Moorish  ?  " 

The  little  gentleman  answered  with  another 
question:  '  You  are  Protestants?  " 

We  could  not  deny  the  fact.  The  stranger 
sighed  impatiently.  "  Ah  well,  that  explains  many 
things!  No  traveler  who  is  not  a  Catholic  can 
understand  or  appreciate  Spain." 

"  You  can  enjoy  a  lot  you  don't  understand." 
Patsy  stood  to  his  guns. 

"  You  miss  the  history,  lose  the  background  of 
the  tapestry,"  the  stranger  went  on  testily.  "  I 
am  tired  of  this  fool  talk  about  Moorish  art;  the 


SEVILLE  FAIR  127 

Mosque  of  Cordova  spoiled  by  being  turned  into  a 
Christian  church,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Rubbish! 
I  say  it  was  a  good  thing  to  do!  "  His  eyes  shone, 
his  cheeks  burned,  he  held  up  a  hand  enforcing 
attention.  "  Listen  to  what  I  tell  you, —  Hell  is 
not  too  hot,  nor  eternity  too  long  to  punish  the  sins 
of  the  Moors  against  the  Christians  of  Spain." 

"  Do  you  know  where  you  are  standing  ? " 
Pemberton  struck  the  earth  with  his  heel  as  he 
said  it.  *  This  is  the  old  quemadero,  the  burning- 
ground  of  the  Inquisition.  On  this  spot  two 
thousand  persons,  many  of  them  Moors,  were 
tortured  and  burned  alive  in  one  year.  Is  there 
any  circle  in  your  Inferno  for  the  Grand  Inquisi- 
tors ?  " 

*  What  is  the  use  of  remembering  such  disa- 
greeable things?  They  are  much  better  for- 
gotten! "  cried  the  stranger,  irritably.  "  I  took 
you  for  persons  of  more  sense!  "  and  he  went  off 
in  a  huff. 

"  I  wish  he  had  liked  us  better,  I  liked  him  so 
much,"  murmured  Patsy.  "  It's  the  first  rule  of 
travel,  isn't  it? — talk  with  people  you  would  not 
be  likely  to  know  at  home,  and  learn  their 
creeds." 

'  The  second  rule,"  said  Pemberton,  "  is,  visit 
different  epochs  as  well  as  different  countries. 
I  have  visited  in  the  Middle  Ages,  the  Dark 


128      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Ages,  the  Ages  of  Stone  and  of  Iron;  only  the 
Golden  Age  I  have  not  found.  Seville  comes  near- 
est to  it!  Follow  the  old  trade  routes,  go 
where  the  bagmen  go,  make  friends  with  traders 
and1  drummers.  The  gods  of  Greece  came  into 
Rome  in  the  chapman's  pack.  Avoid,  on  your 
life,  the  smug  hotels,  the  tourist  tickets  that 
make  the  great  pleasure  route  of  the  world  so 
comfortable,  so  safe,  so  dull.  Take  the  checker 
and  chance  of  travel.  There  is  as  much  ad- 
venture left  in  the  world  as  is  good  for  a  man,  if 
he  will  take  a  risk  or  two!  " 

"  The  third  rule  is,  buy  no  thing;  spend  all 
your  money  on  impressions;  they  will  be  good  as 
new  when  mementos  are  lost,  stolen,  or  in  the 
dust  bin!" 

"  The  fourth  rule,"  said  J.,  "  is  go  slow. 
Yesterday  three  hundred  tourists  saw  Seville  in 
four  hours.  They  were  driven  all  over  the  place 
in  batches,  each  man  and  woman  of  them  tagged 
with  the  card  of  the  hotel  where  they  were  billeted 
to  dine.  The  Liberal  said  this  morning  that  it  was 
better  to  be  four  hundred  years  behind  the  world 
than  to  be  in  such  a  hurry.  I  am  not  sure  the 
Liberal  is  not  right." 

That  afternoon,  Concepcion  called  for  us  in  a 
smart  two-seated  cart  drawn  by  fawn-colored 
mules  with  silken  ears,  varnished  hoofs,  and 


SEVILLE  FAIR  129 

jingling  bells.  It  was  "  up  to  her,"  Pemberton 
said,  to  show  us  the  social  end  of  the  Feria. 

"  Estoy  vestida  de  may  a!  "  she  cried  gleefully; 
"  does  it  please  them  ?  " 

"  How  well  dressed  she  is,  a  preciosity !  "  Patsy's 
vocabulary  was  growing.  To  be  vestida  de  maya 
means  to  wear  the  lovely  old  Andalusian  costume, 
still  good  form  for  Feria  and  bull-fights.  Con- 
cepcion  wore  a  yellow  crape  manton  de  Manilla 
(the  fringe  was  ten  inches  long)  embroidered  with 
butterflies  and  roses;  a  white,  blond  lace  mantilla, 
gold  satin  skirt  with  overdress  of  black  net  and 
chenille  dots,  lace  mittens  and  tiny  gold  shoes. 
She  carried  the  sort  of  fan  collectors  outside  of 
Spain  keep  in  a  glass  case, —  the  sticks  of  delicately 
carved  mother-of-pearl;  the  painting,  charming, 
eighteenth  century  miniature  work.  The  artist 
had  represented  the  two  serious  affairs  in  woman's 
life :  religion, —  illustrated  by  a  scene  from  sacred 
history,  Jerusalem  with  David  standing  before 
Saul;  and  love-making, —  illustrated  by  an  Arcadian 
vale,  where  a  patched  and  powdered  shepherdess 
and  a  silk-stockinged  shepherd  looked  fondly  at 
each  other. 

Concepcion  took  us  first  to  the  Parque  Maria 
Luisa,  once  royal  property ;  now  a  people's  pleasure 
ground,  more  garden  than  park,  with  thickets  of 
camelias,  white,  red,  and  pink,  and  wildernesses 


130       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

of  roses  climbing  over  rustic  arbors,  hiding  dead 
trees,  or  blooming  sedately  in  well-trimmed  beds. 
We  would  have  lingered  in  this  paradise  among 
the  palms  and  orange  trees — from  an  ilex  grove 
the  long,  trilling  cadence  of  a  nightingale  gave 
warning  that  the  evening  service  of  song  was  be- 
ginning— but  Concepcion  objected  that  there  was 
nobody  there,  and  gave  the  order:  "  To  Las 
Delicias." 

Four  lines  of  carriages  moved  at  a  foot  pace  up 
and  down  the  wide  paseo.  Groups  of  horsemen, 
officers  and  civilians  picked  their  way  through 
the  throng.  The  promenades  on  either  side  were 
crowded  with  pedestrians.  The  defile  of  beauty 
was  dazzling;  the  senoritas  were  all  smiles  and 
animation,  using  their  eyes  to  deadly  purpose;  in 
Andalusia  flirtation  is  not  a  lost,  even  a  decadent 
art.  Patsy,  wounded  on  every  side,  groaned  aloud,. 
"I  wish  I  was  a  Turk,  I  wish  I  was  the  Sultan  of 
Turkey!" 

"  In  his  heart,  every  man  is  a  Turk!  " 

"  Starts  so, —  some  learn  that  the  best  of  all  is 
to  come  home  from  a  flower  show,  and  find  the 
single  rose  in  the  flower-pot  on  the  window-sill, 
sweeter  than  all  the  rest." 

So  they  gossipped  in  the  carriage,  while  the 
mouse-colored  mules  fretted  at  the  slow  pace! 

The  west  end,  the  fashionable  quarter  of  the 


SEVILLE  FAIR  131 

toy  city  of  the  Feria,  has  neat  toy  streets,  dainty 
casetas  like  dolls'  houses,  cafes,  and  clubs.  From 
Conception's  account,  it  would  seem  that  the 
Alcalde  had  merely  waved  his  wand,  and  from  the 
bare  ground  of  the  old  quemadero  the  fairy  city 
had  sprung  complete. 

"  You  hire  your  caseta  for  the  week,"  Pemberton 
explained,  "  and  send  out  what  furniture  you  need 
from  your  town  house."  As  it  grew  dark,  gar- 
lands of  many-colored  lights  festooned  the  way; 
firefly  lamps  twinkled  among  the  shrubbery, 
lanterns  like  great,  illuminated  fruits  bloomed  out 
from  the  dark  trees;  it  seemed  that  we  were  wan- 
dering in  Aladdin's  palace.  Between  the  Moorish 
arches  of  the  Circole  de  Labradores  we  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  pretty  ball-room,  where  a  crowd  of 
waltzers  swayed  to  the  music  of  the  Thousand  and 
One  Nights.  Outside  a  private  caseta  painted  like 
a  Japanese  tea  house,  Patsy  halted  and  stood 
immovable,  till,  as  one  by  one  the  crowd  moved  on, 
we  edged  our  way  to  the  front.  The  caseta  was 
open  to  the  street.  Across  a  tiny  verandah  we 
saw  the  charming  interior.  An  elderly,  bald 
gentleman  sat  at  a  piano  playing  the  letter  air 
from  La  Perichole.  In  a  corner  a  group  of  ladies 
talked  together;  a  little  girl  in  white  came  and 
hung  over  the  piano,  watching  the  musician's 
fingers. 


132      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

A  tall  young  officer  with  a  roving  blue  eye  and 
gold  hair  lying  in  crisp  little  curls  on  an  ivory 
forehead,  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  talking 
with  a  small,  dark  youth  with  a  hawk  nose,  and 
black,  impenetrable  eyes  where  the  fire  smouldered 
but  did  not  flash. 

"  That  good-looking  boy  is  Martin  O'Shea," 
said  Pemberton;  "Irish  —  need  you  ask?  The 
family  has  been  settled  here  a  hundred,  perhaps 
three  hundred  years;  his  eye  has  not  lost  the  Celtic 
light,  or  his  tongue  the  edge.  The  other  is  Bena- 
miel,  Moorish  descent,  of  course;  they're  both 
dangling  after  a  certain  girl,  a  friend  of  Concep- 
cion's.  Oh!  that  is  part  of  the  fascination  of  this 
wonderful,  aloof,  old  Spain;  you  can  trace  the  races 
here  so  clearly;  somehow  the  strains  don't  seem  to 
have  become  so  blurred,  so  mixed,  as  in  most 
parts  of  Europe." 

The  two  young  men  cast  impatient  looks  at  a 
curtained  door  at  the  back.  "  Pronto"  the  signal 
came  from  the  inner  room.  The  music  changed 
to  a  throbbing  seguidilla,  the  curtain  trembled, 
and  out  tripped  two  pretty  girls  vestida  de  maya. 

"  Do  you  see  who  it  is  ? "  whispered  Patsy. 

The  taller  was  Luz,  the  other  could  only  be  her 
sister.  Their  castanets  clicked,  almost  as  naturally* 
as  fingers  snap,  as  they  took  the  first  pose  of  the 
dance.  One  foot  advanced,  the  other  behind 


SEVILLE  FAIR  133 

supporting  the  weight  of  the  body;  the  right  arm 
raised,  the  left  extended,  just  as  you  see  it  in  the 
dancing  faun  of  Herculaneum.  O'Shea  took  down 
a  guitar  from  the  peg  where  it  hung,  and  swept 
the  chords  with  that  curious  ringing  touch  of  the 
Spaniard;  Benamiel  marked  time  by  beating  with 
his  feet,  clapping  with  his  hands.  The  dance 
began.  It  was  very  graceful,  above  all  very 
expressive,  that  was  the  great  quality;  it  seemed 
the  natural,  spontaneous  expression  of  those  two 
lovely  young  creatures'  joy  in  life,  of  their  super- 
abundant vitality,  of  the  young  blood  coursing 
through  their  veins.  Though  every  posture,  each 
bold  advance  and  timid  retreat  was  old  as  Egypt, 
the  dance  had  all  the  beautiful  freshness  of  a 
primitive  art. 

"Viva  la  gracia!  "  The  cry  came  from  a  man 
in  the  crowd,  Miquel,  the  farmer  of  Huelva. 

"  Good  work  for  amateurs,"  said  Pemberton, 
:*  but  wait  till  you've  seen  the  Imperio,  then  you 
will  have  an  idea  of  what  Spanish  dancing  is!  " 

"  Why,"  Patsy  asked,  "  doesn't  that  other  girl 
dance  ?  " 

"  Just  because  she  is  not  a  girl;  she  was  married 
two  years  ago.  It  would  not  be  good  form;  she 
has  had  her  turn,  now  she  must  take  a  back  seat 
and  give  the  others  a  chance.  Thank  God  we're 
still  at  that  stage  of  social  development."  The 


134       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

young  woman,  a  small  morena  (brunette)  with  a 
skin  like  a  creamy  magnolia  blossom  just  be- 
ginning to  turn  brown,  was  very  little  older,  and 
quite  as  pretty  as  the  twin  dancing  stars;  her  foot 
tapped  the  floor,  while  her  sisters  danced  and  she 
sat  talking  with  the  elders. 

"  I  think  this  could  not  happen  outside  of 
Spain,  the  most  democratic  of  all  countries," 
Pemberton  went  on.  "  Here  every  man  is  equal, 
not  merely  in  the  law's  eye,  but  —  what's  far  more 
important — in  his  own  eyes,  and  proves  it  by 
allowing  no  other  man  to  show  better  manners  than 
he.  These  girls,  the  fine  flower  of  Seville,  may 
safely  take  their  part,  add  their  beauty  and  their 
grace  as  the  crowning  attraction  of  the  Feria, 
because  the  man  in  the  street  will  be  as  polite  to 
them  as  the  gentleman  in  the  drawing-room." 

"  Bendita  sea  la  madre  que  ti  pario,"  blessed 
be  the  mother  that  bore  thee.  It  was  Miquel's 
parting  compliment  to  the  senoritas,  as  he  made 
his  way  out  of  the  crowd.  In  the  caseta  visitors 
came  and  went;  Luz  was  surrounded  by  admirers. 
An  old  man  servant  handed  a  tray  with  agraz, 
a  drink  made  of  pounded  unripe  grapes,  clari- 
fied sugar  and  water,  and  bolardos,  little  sugar 
cakes  to  dissolve  in  this  nectar  of  Andalusia.  The 
seguidilla  was  followed  by  a  sevilliana.  When 
the  buoyant  feet  seemed  tired  O'Shea  sang  copla 


SEVILLE  FAIR  135 

after  copla:    the  last  he  might  have  learned  from 
his  mother.     It  is  at  least  as  old  as  he: 

"Do*  besos  tengo  en  el          Two  kisses  I  have  in  my 

alma  soul 

que  no  se  apartan  de  mi;     That  will  not  part  from 

me; 
el  ultimo  de  mi  madre,          The  last  my  mother  gave 

me, 
y  el  primero  que  te  di."       And  the  first  that  I  gave 

thee. 


VI 
A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE 

RODRIGO,  Pemberton's  son,  a  grave  child 
with  eyes  of  brown  fire,  met  us  at  the  gate  of 
the  patio;  by  his  side  stood  a  white  lamb,  with  a 
wreath  of  yellow  primroses  round  its  neck. 

"  You  recognize  the  fleece  of  Huelva  ?  "  said 
Pemberton,  "  this  is  one  of  Miquel's  flock;  every 
child  must  have  its  pet  lamb  at  Easter,  you  know." 
He  opened  the  ancient  iron  gate, —  the  bars  were 
lilies,  tenderly  wrought  as  if  of  a  more  precious 
metal, —  and  we  passed  through  the  Zaguan  (vesti- 
bule) into  the  patio  paved  with  marble,  surrounded 
on  all  four  sides  by  a  corridor  like  a  cloister.  Be- 
hind the  Moorish  columns,  graceful  as  palm  trees, 
were  walls  lined  with  azulejos,  blue,  green,  yellow 
glazed  tiles  of  fascinating  design,  bewildering  color. 
In  the  middle  of  the  patio  a  jet  of  water  leapt  from 
an  urn,  danced  in  the  sun,  broke  into  a  shower  of 
living  diamonds,  fell  laughing  to  a  marble  basin. 

"  In  summer  we  practically  live  in  this  patio, 
that  long  bamboo  chair  is  my  favorite  place.  I 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  137 

lie  there  and  read,  or  puzzle  out  the  designs  on 
those  tiles, —  they're  over  a  hundred, —  and  listen 
to  the  fountain  and  the  birds.  What  more  does  a 
man  want  in  hot  weather?  Take  care,  Rodrigo, 
don't  drown  him!  " 

The  child  was  trying  to  make  the  lamb  drink; 
the  gold  fish  darted  from  side  to  side  in  fright  as  its 
pink  nose  ruffled  the  water. 

'  We're  still  living  up-stairs;  by  Corpus  Christi 
we  shall  have  embajado,  as  they  say  here.  That 
means,  moved  down-stairs.  It's  the  universal  cus- 
tom —  the  poorest  house  in  Seville  has  two  stories, 
the  upper  for  cold  weather,  the  lower  for  hot;  you 
can't  fancy  the  difference  in  the  climate.  When 
moving  day  comes,  the  awning  is  drawn  over  the 
patio,  we  bring  all  the  furniture  from  the  upper  to 
the  lower  rooms  —  exactly  the  same  size  and  shape, 
so  everything  fits  —  hang  pictures  and  mirrors 
in  the  corridor;  put  the  piano  here,  the  plants  from 
the  terrace  there  between  the  columns.  We'll 
have  a  look  at  the  summer  quarters,  if  you  like;  it 
may  give  you  some  idea  of  how  we  live  in  Seville 
in  hot  weather." 

We  followed  him  through  large,  dark  rooms, 
high-ceiled  and  airy;  caught  glimpses  of  a  mighty 
marble  bath  in  a  cool  green  chamber,  of  a  kitchen 
where  they  cook  with  charcoal,  arid  finally  halted 
in  a  place  mysterious  as  an  alchemist's  laboratory. 


138      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

There  were  cauldrons  of  beaten  copper,  measures 
for  wet  and  dry,  an  antique  balance  with  brass 
weights,  strange  glass  vessels,  a  press,  an  old  still. 
As  we  stood  admiring  a  huge  marble  mortar, 
Concepcion  came  into  the  laboratory.  She  wore 
a  short  white  dress  and  apron,  and,  on  her  chate- 
laine, a  bunch  of  big  keys. 

"  Always  on  time ! "  Pemberton  exclaimed.  "  At 
half  past  nine  every  morning  Concepcion  unlocks 
the  despensa,  and  gives  out  whatever  is  needed 
for  the  day." 

'  The  grapes  for  the  agraz  are  pounded  in 
that  mortar,"  said  Concepcion,  who  saw  I  was 
interested  in  the  strange  vessels,  "  and  those  big 
stone  rollers  are  used  for  crushing  and  grinding  the 
chocolate." 

"  Do  you  remember  how  good  the  smell  of  choco- 
late is,  when  they  are  making  you  a  cup  at  home  ?  " 
said  Pemberton.  "  Imagine  what  it  must  be  to 
have  the  whole  house  filled  with  it!  Ah!  the 
making  of  the  chocolate  is  an  important  event. 
Rodrigo  and  I  are  always  impatient  for  it  to 
begin." 

'  When  the  time  has  come  to  make  the  choco- 
late," Concepcion  went  on,  "  the  cacao  is  bought. 
It  comes  in  great  sacks, —  the  best  from  the 
Havana,  cinnamon  from  Ceylon  —  being  sure  it  is 
the  most  fresh  —  sugar  the  finest,  and  supreme 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  139 

vanilla.  When  all  is  ready,  we  call  the  choco- 
lateroSy  two  good  men,  who  make  the  chocolate 
under  my  direction,  according  to  a  family  recipe. 
When  it  all  is  finished,  it  is  poured  out  into  those 
large  troughs  to  cool.  Then  it  is  cut  in  squares; 
each  large  square  is  just  big  enough  to  make  a  cup 
of  chocolate  for  grown-up  people;  and  the  little 
squares  to  make  the  children's  chocolate.  When 
hard,  it  is  put  away  on  these  shelves;  as  the 
cupboard  is  airy  it  keeps  itself  for  a  year."  When 
she  learned  that  some  housekeepers  bought  their 
chocolate  ready  made,  Concepcion  was  scandal- 
ized. "  It  will  be  mixed  with  flour  of  chestnuts, 
or  other  inferior  things;  there  is  no  chocolate 
like  the  Andalusian!"  she  declared. 

In  the  despensa,  a  cool,  stone  grotto,  hams, 
sausages,  dried  herbs,  onions,  and  scarlet  peppers 
hung  from  the  roof;  a  dozen  bloated  goatskins 
leant  against  the  wall. 

'  The  oil,"  Pemberton  explained,  "  was  brought 
in  from  the  farm  on  mule-back  this  morning. 
When  it  settles,  we  shall  draw  it  off  in  those 
amphorce;"  he  pointed  to  a  row  of  two-handled, 
red  clay  jars.  "  Those  tarros  are  full  of  pork, — 
we  killed  a  hundred  pigs  last  November.  The  best 
of  the  meat  is  sent  in  town  to  us,  the  rest  is  kept  at 
the  farm  for  our  work  people;  we  feed  our  laborers 
in  Andalusia,  you  know,  and  feed  them  well." 


140      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Concepcion  told  us  that  she  herself  always  gave 
out  the  day's  provisions;  this  was  important,  else 
disastrous  things  might  happen.  She  stood  by 
and  saw  cook  take  the  pork  from  the  tarro, 
where  it  was  packed  in  the  "  butter  of  pig, " 
or  the  game  from  the  smaller  barrels.  These 
lower  ones  were  full  of  the  partridges  Pemberton 
shot  last  season;  some  days  he  got  a  dozen, 
some  days  twenty.  Those  that  were  not  eaten 
or  given  away  were  slightly  boiled  and  packed 
in  the  butter  of  pig.  They  would  keep  six  months 
if  great  care  were  used  in  taking  them  out,  and 
only  the  wooden  spoon  touched  the  pig  butter. 
If,  as  had  happened,  a  careless  servant  puts  in  her 
hand  to  take  out  a  partridge  or  a  bit  of  pork,  the 
whole  tarro  is  lost;  nothing  can  save  it  from  going 
bad.  The  same  is  true  of  olives,  put  up  in  those 
tall  tinajas.  Once  a  human  hand, —  a  metal 
spoon  is  almost  as  bad, —  is  dipped  into  that  home- 
made pickle  of  vinegar,  water,  lemon,  salt,  and 
laurel  leaves,  the  whole  tinaja  is  ruined. 

"  These  nice  comfortable-looking  round  jars 
are  made  especially  to  hold  Manchegan  cheeses," 
said  Pemberton.  '  They're  like  Parmesan,  only 
better,  made  of  sheep  and  goats'  milk  mixed. 
Once  a  year  they  bring  them  from  La  Mancha  to 
sell;  we  always  lay  in  a  large  stock;  packed  in  those 
jars,  with  enough  oil  poured  in  to  cover  them,  they 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  141 

keep  indefinitely.  Here  is  the  cook.  The  momen- 
tous council  of  the  day  is  about  to  open.  Come, 
I'll  show  you  the  rest  of  the  house,  while  Con- 
cepcion  gives  the  orders.  We'll  have  a  look  at  the 
roses  first." 

Behind  the  patio  was  a  second  court,  with  orange 
and  lemon  trees;  at  one  end  grew  an  ancient  cedar 
with  hollow  trunk  and  strange  roots,  like  splay 
feet,  that  gripped  the  earth.  A  whiff  of  orange 
blossoms,  the  tinkle  of  a  guitar,  the  voice  of  an 
unseen  singer  chanting  a  low  wailing  malagena 
greeted  us  as  we  entered.  The  walls  were  a  living 
glory  of  roses;  the  yellow  Bankshires  hung  in  starry 
bunches;  the  white  rose  vines  flung  out  floating 
banners  of  green,  thick  sprinkled  with  rose  snow. 
A  golden  pheasant  strutted  and  preened  itself  in 
the  sun ;  from  an  aviary  came  the  chatter  of  a  happy 
family  of  birds. 

"  Hijo  de  mi  alma"  Pemberton  said  to  Rodrigo, 
"  you  may  not  take  the  lamb  up-stairs;  stay  with 
him  till  we  come  down." 

Rodrigo,  nothing  disappointed,  drew  out  a 
little  cart,  and  seating  himself  in  it  turned  the 
wheels  so  that  the  cart  slid  along  the  stone  path  in 
the  middle  of  the  garden,  the  lamb  trotting  beside; 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  we  heard  the  rat- 
tling of  those  wheels  (I  can  hear  them  still)  as  the 
lonely  boy  and  the  lamb  played  together. 


142      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  game  of  football  ?"  Patsy 
asked  the  child.  Rodrigo  had  only  seen  pictures 
of  football,  but  he  had  seen  pelota,  and  he  could  hit 
the  bull's-eye  with  his  arrow  three  times  out  of  five. 

"  Rodrigo  is  a  Spaniard;  he  is  going  into  the 
army,"  Pemberton  said,  as  he  led  the  way  up-stairs 
to  the  winter  quarters.  "  My  grandmother  was  a 
Spaniard;  my  parents  called  themselves  '  cosmo- 
politans'; some  other  people  called  them  dis- 
gruntled Americans.  I'm  a  man  without  a  country, 
—  one  of  that  kind  is  enough  in  a  family!  " 

He  flared  up  with  sudden  passion.  To  make  a 
diversion  J.  complimented  him  on  the  winter 
parlor,  a  bare,  comfortable  room  with  a  few  good 
pictures,  the  necessary  furniture  and  a  refreshing 
absence  of  junk. 

"  No  little  tables  of  jointed  silver  fish  and  jade 
idols  here  ?  "  he  said.  "  We're  still  half  Orientals 
in  Seville;  we  don't  suffer  from  the  dreadful  '  too 
much  '  that  is  stifling  you  in  America!  " 

The  winter  kitchen,  all  white  marble  and  tiles, 
had  a  gas  range,  the  most  modern  thing  in  the 
house,  and  deal  tables  scrubbed  with  soap  and 
sand  till  you  saw  the  grain  of  the  wood.  Something 
was  said  about  the  exquisite  neatness  of  the  house. 

"  Andalusians,"  Pemberton  assured  us,  "  are 
remarkably  clean  people.  Did  you  notice  our 
calle?  You  don't  often  see  a  street  so  well  kept. 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  143 

Each  householder  is  obliged  to  take  care  of  the  part 
before  his  house;  competition  is  a  good  principle  in 
street  cleaning." 

The  upper  corridor,  giving  access  to  the  winter 
rooms,  was  shut  in  with  glass;  it  led  to  the  azotea, 
a  terrace  that  overhung  the  court  of  roses.  The 
flowers  here  had  more  sun  and  air  than  in  the  patio ; 
the  carnations  were  as  big  as  coffee  cups,  the 
damask  roses  as  large  as  saucers.  A  second  flight 
of  stairs  led  up  to  the  winter  bed  and  dressing- 
rooms. 

"  These  mattresses  are  of  carded  wool/'  said 
Pemberton;  "the  blankets, —  feel  how  light  and 
soft  they  are, —  were  made  at  the  farm,  spun  and 
woven  by  an  old  woman,  the  last  survivor  of  my 
grandmother's  servants.  These  sheepskins  are 
spread  under  the  mattresses  for  warmth,  for  tiled 
floors  are  cold.  The  fleece  is  of  three  years' 
growth;  see,  it  is  as  fine  as  silk." 

Laundry,  drying-room,  and  terrace  for  bleaching 
and  airing,  were  at  the  top  of  the  house.  The  keen 
smell  of  good  gum  camphor  met  us  on  the  stair; 
it  came  from  a  brass-bound  cedar  chest,  standing 
open  on  the  terrace.  A  dozen  of  Concepcion's 
feather  fans  dangled  from  a  line. 

"  Now  that  you've  seen  the  house  in  Seville 
God  has  given  me,"  said  Pemberton,  "  look  at  the 
view;  it's  the  best  thing  about  it!  " 


144      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Below  us  lay  the  city  with  its  narrow  calles, 
sunny  plazas,  shining  houses.  In  every  patio,  on 
every  terrace  and  roof  garden  were  flowers  and 
caged  birds.  The  air  was  musical  with  bells,  song, 
laughter.  Outside  the  old  Roman  city  walls, 
spread  the  green  Andalusian  vega,  with  the 
yellow  river,  gleaming,  where  the  sun  touched 
it,  like  clouded  amber.  In  the  distance  the  vega 
was  shut  in  by  a  circle  of  blue  Sierras;  snow  lay 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  hills,  at  whose  feet  the  fruit 
trees  were  in  blossom. 

"  Can  anybody  ever  be  sad  in  Seville  ?  "  cried 
Patsy.  "  Do  people  ever  die  or  grow  old  here  ? 
Are  there  such  things  as  tears  ?  " 

'  There  is  a  young  lady  down-stairs  who  must 
have  shed  a  quart  of  tears  since  yesterday,"  said 
Pemberton.  "  Come  and  help  Concepcion  com- 
fort her."  He  led  the  way  down  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Sitting  beside  Concepcion,  whose  hand  she 
had  been  holding,  was  a  pretty  girl,  wearing  a 
dress  much  too  large  for  her. 

"  Mi  amiga,  Senorita  Trinidad  Fulano,"  Con- 
cepcion introduced  her  friend,  who  tried  to  look 
as  if  she  had  not  been  crying.  Our  hostess  then 
bustled  out  of  the  room,  and  returned,  followed  by 
a  neat  maid  with  a  tray  of  preserved  sweet  pota- 
toes, some  huevos  dulces,  a  sort  of  sweetmeat  made 
of  sugar  and  yolk  of  egg,  a  delicate  decanter,  and  a 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  145 

straw  basket  containing  twelve  long  thin  glasses 
no  bigger  round  than  a  walking  stick. 

"A  cana  of  manzanilla,"  said  Pemberton,  pouring 
out  a  clear  amber  liquid.  "  It  is  light  for  Spanish 
wine,  no  headache  in  it."  Patsy,  Concepcion  and 
Trinidad  were  already  chattering  together  like 
three  magpies  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  In 
the  solemn  silence  that  accompanied  the  tasting 
of  the  manzanilla,  Concepcion's  voice  rang  clear. 

"  For  a  woman  to  call  herself  beautiful, 
she  must  possess  the  nine  essentials  of  beauty. 
Three  things  must  she  have  that  be  black, —  the 
hair,  the  eyes,  the  lashes;  three  that  be  red, —  the 
lips,  the  palms,  the  cheeks;  three  that  be  white, — 
the  hands,  the  neck,  and  the  teeth." 

Trinidad  nodded.  !<  Claro,"  she  said,  "  she 
has  expressed  it  divinely." 

*  Trinidad  could  hardly  say  less,"  Pemberton 
observed,  "  seeing  that  she  herself  possesses  the 
nine  indispensables.  That  is  a  Moorish  proverb, 
though  Concepcion  learned  it  from  the  nuns,  like  the 
saying  that  the  sal  a  morena  wastes  in  a  minute 
would  last  a  blonde  a  week  and  a  half.  It  is  a 
good  thing  you  came  in  to-day;  Trinidad  is  cheer- 
ing up  already.  She  has  been  tremendously 
harried  —  had  a  visit  from  an  angry  parent  this 
morning,  and  a  visit  from  a  despairing  lover  last 
night.  He  stood  in  the  calle  outside  her  window, 


146      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

talking  with  her  till  past  twelve  o'clock.  You  see 
she's  en  deposito  with  Concepcion." 

At  this  moment  Concepcion  glided  across  the 
room  —  she  moved  with  that  peculiar  poetry  of 
motion  of  the  Spanish  woman  —  and  joined  us. 

"  Trinidad  is  very  distinguished,  no  ?  "  This 
was  always  her  highest  praise.  "  And  intelligent, 
and  instructed;  Ave  Maria  Purissima!  she  can 
speak  three  idioms." 

'  You  don't  understand  what  being  en  deposito 
means,"  Pemberton  went  on,  ignoring  the  in- 
terruption. "  Having  lately  come  of  age,  that  is 
eighteen  in  Andalusia,  Trinidad  made  application 
to  a  magistrate  by  means  of  an  official  document 
written  and  signed  by  herself  stating  that  she  wished 
to  marry  Jose  Maria  Benamiel;  that  her  parents, 
with  no  sufficient  reason,  forbade  the  marriage; 
that " 

"  Pobrecitosl "  broke  in  Concepcion;  "they 
have  been  making  love  these  four  years.  He  is  a 
youth  the  most  well-bred,  the  most  distin- 
guished   " 

'  Yesterday,"  Pemberton  continued,  "  the  mag- 
istrate called  on  Trinidad's  father " 

"  He  came  in  a  carriage,"  Concepcion  reminded 
him. 

"  And  after  a  heated  interview,  took  Trinidad 
away  from  her  father's  house  and  brought  her  to 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  147 

ours.  Here  she  will  stay  en  deposito  for  three 
months.  During  this  time,  Concepcion  is  re- 
sponsible for  her.  Trinidad  is  free  to  see  Bena- 
miel,  always  in  the  presence  of  some  responsible 
third  person,  and  her  parents  are  free  to  visit  her. 
They- 

'  They  are  people  the  most  egotistical,  the 
most  interested!  "  Concepcion  burst  out.  "  Can 
you  imagine?  they  denied  her  clothes,  por  Diosl 
it  is  the  truth:  that  is  my  dress  she  is  wearing! 
who  ever  heard  of  so  great  a  shame  ?  Not  one 
handkerchief  allowed  those  hard-hearted  ones  their 
daughter  to  take  away  from  their  accursed  house!  " 

"  It  is  true,  they  all  lost  their  tempers,"  said 
Pemberton  lightly,  "  and  behaved  foolishly.  I 
fancy  we  shall  see  a  portmanteau  before  night; 
between  ourselves,  Trinidad  might  very  well  have 
kept  on  the  dress  she  came  away  in  yesterday. 
It  is  not  a  bad  system,  the  deposito;  it  gives  time 
for  both  love  and  anger  to  cool  off.  The  girl  is 
out  of  coercion  here;  she  has  a  chance  to 
make  up  her  mind  whether  or  no  Benamiel  is 
really  the  man  for  her.  At  the  end  of  the  three 
months,  if  she  still  wants  him,  she  may  marry  him 
without  her  parents'  consent." 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  ?  " 

"  Pretty  safe  to.  The  old  people  will  give  in; 
there  is  nothing  really  against  Benamiel,  only  they 


148       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

preferred  O'Shea!  Small  blame  to  them.  O'Shea 
did  not  know  that  Trinidad  and  Benamiel  had 
already  settled  things  between  them.  When  he 
found  it  out  he  went  back  to  Cordova,  where  he  is 
stationed,  and,  Trinidad  says,  wanted  to  give  to 
Benamiel  a  bracelet  he  had  bought  for  her.  Nice 
boy,  O'Shea.  Why  is  it  that  the  nice  girls  always 
take  the  wrong  —  well,  there's  no  use  opening  that 
chapter,  if  you  must  be  going  —  it  is  time  for  your 
Spanish  lesson  —  we'll  tackle  it  some  other  time 
when  we  have  the  night  before  us!  " 

Don  Renaldo,  the  ex-ofeecial  de  marina,  was 
waiting  to  give  Patsy  and  me  our  lessons  in  vero 
Castellano.  His  method  was  simple;  he  talked, 
while  we  listened.  He  began  by  explaining  his 
rusty  mourning  suit,  as  he  drew  off  his  worn  old 
leather  gloves.  "It  is  the  thirtieth  anniversary 
of  the  death  of  my  father,"  he  spoke  slowly,  so  that 
we  might  follow  him.  "  All  the  masses  celebrated 
to-day  in  the  church  of  San  Sebastian  will  be 
applied  to  the  repose  of  his  soul."  Patsy  said  he 
would  like  to  hear  one  of  the  memorial  masses, 
but  it  was  already  too  late,  they  were  all  over. 

"  He  was  the  most  kind  of  fathers,  the  most 
benevolent  of  men,  his  benevolence  was  the  cause 
of  all  his  misfortunes  in  this  world!  To  oblige  a 
friend  he  signed  his  name  to  a  note,  understanding 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  149 

that  it  was  a  mere  form.  With  those  two  strokes 
of  the  pen  he  signed  away  his  fortune." 

"  He  did  not  have  a  benevolent  friend!  "  Patsy 
ejaculated. 

"  H ombre!  He  was  a  caballero,  a  gentleman  of 
distinction — but — it  is  the  truth,  of  business  he  was 
as  ignorant  as  mi  pobre  papa!  The  catastrophe 
that  ruined  both,  killed  my  papa;  his  friend  died 
soon  after  of  shame.  Then  Tio  Jorge,  my  rich 
uncle,  took  me  and  brought  me  up  as  if  I  were  his 
heir.  Every  year  we  went  to  Paris  together;  we 
lived  with  great  elegance  on  the  Rue  de  Rivoli;  we 
had  a  box  at  the  opera;  I  had  my  own  carriage; 
my  clothes  came  from  Poole;  at  that  time  I  was 
very  elegant,  and  not,  people  said,  bad  looking. 
I  am  old  now,  but  then!  "  He  sighed  and  rolled 
up  his  eyes  at  the  recollection  of  his  elegant  youth. 

'  You're  not  old,  you're  in  the  prime  of  life," 
said  Patsy.  Though  Don  Renaldo  was  not  even 
elderly,  he  had  given  up  the  fight,  went  shabby 
and  unshaven,  with  buttons  missing  from  his 
frayed  shirt. 

"  Suddenly  Tio  Jorge  had  a  stroke  of  apoplexy, — 
I  was  at  Monte  Carlo  at  the  time.  I  hurried  to  his 
bedside  and  took  all  care  of  him  till  he  died.  It 
was  very  sad,  but  it  was  my  duty  to  see  everything 
done  as  he  would  have  wished.  His  funeral  was 
the  most  luxurious  ever  seen  in  Valladolid.  He 


150      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

was  followed  to  the  grave  by  the  aristocracy,  civil 
and  military  authorities,  and  whole  communities  of 
monks  and  nuns.  There  was  a  multitude  of 
carriages,  and  to  every  coachman  I  gave  a  propina 
of  fifty  pesetas.  After  the  funeral  the  will  was 
opened.  Well,  what  do  you  think  he  left  me  ?  " 

'  That  depends  upon  whether  or  not  you  were 
the  only  heir,"  Patsy  answered  soothingly. 

"  He  left  me  nothing!  Money,  palace,  horses, 
plate,  jewels,  everything  went  to  found  a  home  for 
the  widows  and  daughters  of  navy  officers !  the  pre- 
ference always  to  be  given  to  the  handsomest  ones. 
The  will  was  published;  there  followed  ridicule 
the  most  painful  from  half  the  papers  of  Europe, 
from  the  Argentine,  from  all  over  the  world.  They 
called  Tio  Jorge  a  modern  Don  Juan  Tenorio!  " 

*  The  old  hunks  deserved  something  worse  than 
to  be  laughed  at.  I  hope  he's  getting  it  now," 
murmured  Patsy. 

"  May  be  —  but  that  was  not  true;  he  was  not 
an  immoral  man.  He  believed  that  beautiful 
ladies  had  greater  difficulties  to  contend  with  than 
others." 

"  He  might  have  left  you  a  life  interest,"  said 
Patsy;  "  the  beautiful  ladies  could  wait."  While 
Don  Renaldo  did  not  allow  himself  to  criticise  Tio 
Jorge,  our  sympathy  was  as  balm  to  him. 

"  I  gave  up  my  home,  I  gave  up  Paris  —  where  I 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  151 

was  too  well  known.  I  had  frequented  the  best 
society.  I  came  to  Seville  where  I  have  no  friends, 
where  many  travelers  come;  "  he  dropped  into 
English.  "  I  off  re  my  service  to  accompany  and 
visit  monuments,  gib  lessons,  recommend  the 
hotels!  " 

"  Everybody  is  bothered  about  money  one  way 
or  the  other;  "  Patsy  tried  to  encourage  him;  "  as 
long  as  you  live,  you  either  have  got  to  earn  the 
money  you  spend,  or  spend  money  that  other  people 
have  earned.  Brace  up,  Amigo!  Think  how 
much  more  fun  it  is  to  earn  your  own  money  than 
to  spend  money  some  other  fellow  has  had  the  fun 
of  earning!  " 

Don  Renaldo  looked  steadily  at  him,  groping  for 
his  meaning.  "  At  first  I  envied  people  who  have 
money,"  he  confessed;  "  now  I  envy  those  who  have 
work  that  they  enjoy."  He  took  up  a  book  Patsy 
had  told  him  was  written  by  a  friend  of  ours. 
"  Your  friend  must  be  a  very  rich  man." 

"  He  just  makes  the  two  ends  meet  without 
lapping!  " 

"  How  could  he  afford  to  print  this  book  ?  The 
binding  is  elegant,  paper,  print  and  engravings, 
superior;  it  must  have  cost  a  great  deal!  " 

"  So  the  publishers  say." 

"  Ojaldl    If  I  could  only  write." 

Poor,  pathetic  soul,  if  he  could  only  do  any  useful 


152      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

thing.  A  fortune  had  been  spent  on  his  education. 
He  could  ride  and  shoot  straight,  he  could  dance, 
and  fence,  and  play  every  game  under  the  sun, 
but  his  life  investment  yielded  a  small,  precarious 
income.  His  only  dividend-bearing  stock,  all  that 
stood  between  him  and  starvation,  was  a  passable 
knowledge  of  the  French  and  English  languages, 
part  of  the  accomplishments  of  his  elegant  youth. 

The  lesson  over,  Don  Renaldo  gone,  Patsy 
summed  up  his  case.  "  A  spent  shot!  "  he  said, 
"  a  poor  thing,  as  capable  of  taking  care  of  himself 
as  a  year  old  baby;  more  coals  to  Tio  Jorge!  " 

One  happy  day,  when  we  had  almost  given  up 
hope  of  ever  seeing  him  again,  Don  Jaime  strolled 
jauntily  into  the  patio,  his  sombrero  gallantly 
cocked  on  one  side,  his  worn  coat  carefully  brushed, 
his  trousers  newly  creased,  a  bunch  of  violets  in  his 
buttonhole.  He  was  greeted  with  shrieks  and 
screams  of  joy.  Black  coffee  and  un  poco  de 
ginevra  de  campagna  (his  only  vices)  were  im- 
mediately ordered  for  him. 

"  I  arrive  only  at  middle  night  yesterday,"  he 
said,  when  accused  of  desertion.  "  I  have  made  a 
loose,  my  brother-in-law,  he  is  daid."  Patsy  asked 
if  it  was  the  husband  of  his  sister  who  had  died. 

"  Ah,  no !  brother  to  my  woman.  Me,  my 
father,  my  grandfather  were  all  unique  childs;  I 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  153 

have  no  sister  —  only  a  half  a  sister,  Candalaria, 
—  no  brother,  no  honkle,  no  haunt;  I  am  a  widow 
and  a  horphan."  We  expressed  sympathy  for  his 
loss.  The  Don  assured  us  that  his  brother-in-law's 
death  was  a  release. 

"Poor  man!  he  was  secluded  in  —  how  you 
say  ?  an  insanitorium  these  long  years.  When  he 
was  daid,  he  had  himself  embaumed  and  trans- 
ported to  Cadiz,  where  is  the  pantheon  of  himself 
and  his  wife." 

"  We  were  just  starting  to  drive  to  Italica," 
said  J.  "  You'll  go  with  us,  Don  ?  Where's  your 
capa?  You'll  need  it;  it's  cold  this  afternoon." 

"  Ah,  no !  I  am  warm  inside,  since  I  drinked  the 
ginevra"  he  patted  his  stomach.  "  Ah  well,  it  is 
heatier  in  Sevillia  than  in  Cadiz,  where  I  goed  to 
escort  the  catafalque  of  my  brother." 

After  that  J.  and  Patsy  took  the  Don  away  from 
me,  and  all  that  afternoon  they  kept  him  to  them- 
selves. I  followed  in  another  carriage  with  Pem- 
berton.  Bursts  of  riotous  laughter  came  to  us  from 
their  cab,  as  they  passed  us  on  the  Alameda  of 
Hercules.  At  the  foot  of  that  pleasant,  shady 
mall,  our  coachman  drew  up  under  a  pair  of  tall, 
gray  granite  columns. 

"  The  old  columns  are  from  a  Roman  temple," 
said  Pemberton.  "  These  guardians  of  the  town," 
he  pointed  to  the  battered  old  statue  that  stood 


154       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

on  either  column,  "  are  Hercules  the  founder,  and 
Julius  Csesar  the  second  founder  of  Seville.  Oh, 
yes!  Hercules  was  here;  he  stopped  and  rested  by 
the  river,  and  founded  Seville  that  time  he  wan- 
dered through  the  Peninsula,  driving  the  lowing 
herds  of  Geyron  before  him." 

We  had  crossed  the  tawny  Guadalquiver,  and 
were  driving  through  Triano,  the  potters'  suburb, 
named  for  the  Emperor  Trajan.  An  open  door- 
way gave  us  a  glimpse  of  a  man  working  a  wheel 
with  his  feet,  and  holding  a  newly  moulded  clay 
vase  in  his  hands  against  the  swiftly  turning  wheel. 
*  They  still  make  the  azulejos,  and  the  pottery 
in  Seville,  as  they  did  in  the  days  of  the  Moors  — 
how  do  I  know  ?  In  the  days  of  the  Romans !  Re- 
member, when  you  come  to  build  your  house,  that 
the  tiles  of  Triano  are  the  best,  cheapest,  and  hand- 
somest in  the  world;  that  Seville  is  a  port;  and  that 
they  can  be  shipped  to  you  at  a  fair  price.  Shall 
we  stop  at  the  factory  and  see  them  ?  The  place 
supplies  the  whole  of  Spain  with  crockery.  Patsy 
would  fall  in  love  with  the  big  garden  pots,  and  the 
pretty  jugs." 

The  most  interesting  thing  we  saw  in  the 
factory  was  the  potter  himself.  Behind  the  splen- 
did showrooms,  where  the  fine  majolicas  and 
the  common  wares  of  the  common  people  are 
displayed,  in  a  dark,  dank  little  corner,  sat  a 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  155 

man,  half  his  body  out  of  sight,  working  the  potter's 
wheel.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  square  hole  in 
the  floor;  his  legs  were  hidden,  but  his  feet  were 
busy  turning,  turning  the  wheel.  He  was  old  and 
poor.  His  red  hands  had  been  in  the  wet  clay  who 
knows  how  many  hours  —  how  many  days  ?  He 
was  spiritless  and  sad  in  face  and  bearing,  but 
oh!  the  skill  of  those  poor  red  hands!  The 
shapeless  lump  of  soft  wet  clay  was  thumped 
first  upon  the  revolving  stand,  then  as  if  by  magic, 
though  we  saw  it  with  our  eyes,  it  took  shape,  grew 
lovely  and  alive  under  those  hands  that  looked  so 
sodden,  and  yet  could  turn  that  gray  mud  into 
shapes  of  beauty.  A  cup  for  a  dying  man's  broth, 
a  vase  for  a  bride's  rose,  a  basin  to  bathe  a  new- 
born child :  as  each  was  finished  he  held  it  up  for 
a  moment  for  us  to  see,  then  laid  it  down  beside 
him  with  the  others.  I  put  a  coin  in  the  red, 
clayey  hand.  He  gave  a  little  mechanical  nod,  a 
word  of  thanks,  and  went  back  to  his  work.  He 
earns  less  than  an  unskilled  child  would  earn  at 
home.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  can  read  or  write. 
He  works  from  dawn  to  dark  —  the  sight  of 
him  gave  me  great  pangs  of  homesickness  !  Pem- 
berton  could  tell  me  of  no  movement  to  help  this 
man  to  a  freer  life,  to  a  day  whose  working  hours 
do  not  absorb  every  heartbeat  of  power.  There  is 
only  charity!  Bread  for  the  hungry,  salve  for  the 


156      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

sick,  almshouse  for  the  worked-out  human  beast  of 
burden.  Oh !  that  I  could  help  him  to  pass  through 
the  Gate  of  Hope  into  the  Hospitable  Land,  where 
every  one  has  his  chance,  where  the  ranks  are 
always  open. 

Triano  was  already  behind  us,  and  we  were  out 
upon  the  Aracena  road  that  runs  to  the  north. 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  sound  of  marching  men 
came  towards  us  out  of  a  cloud  of  dust.  A  little  far- 
ther on  we  passed  a  regiment  of  small  brown  soldiers; 
mere  boys,  most  of  them.  They  all  wore  sandals; 
some  had  stockings,  some  were  without.  They 
must  have  been  on  fatiguing  work,  they  looked  so 
tired  and  footsore.  In  the  fields,  a  band  of  peasants 
were  cutting  the  ruby  alfalfa ;  the  air  was  fragrant 
with  the  honey-sweet  smell  of  it.  The  harsh  whet- 
ting of  scythes,  the  soft  swish  of  sickles  through  the 
clover,  the  song  of  the  leader  of  the  mowers,  an 
oldish  man  with  a  red  handkerchief  tied  round  his 
head,  marked  the  time  for  the  march  of  those  weary 
soldiers, 

Aditis  padre,  y  adios  madrc,  Goodbye  father  and  mother; 
adios  iglesia  del  pueblo,  Goodbye  church  of  the  village. 

que  voy  d  servir  al  rey  I  must  go  and  serve  the  king 

los  ochos  anos  que  lo  debo.         For  the  eight  years  that  I  owe 

him. 

One  of  the  last  of  the  soldiers,  a  superb  blond 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  157 

man  towering  above  the  others,  repeated  the  re- 
frain of  the  mower's  song: 

'*  I  must  go  and  serve  the  king  for  the  eight  years  that  I  owe 
him!" 

"Nothing  has  changed  since  Strabo  praised  this 
pleasant  valley,"  said  Pemberton.  "We  still  use 
sickles,  and  we  still  take  the  young  men  from  the 
work  of  the  fields,  and  turn  them  into  soldiers,  food 
for  gunpowder." 

Coming  mysteriously  towards  us,  down  the 
straight  white  road,  were  half  a  dozen  little  moving 
heaps  of  newly  cut  clover.  We  could  not  see,  until 
they  were  upon  us,  the  legs  of  the  tiny  donkey  trot- 
ting along  under  each  fragrant  load. 

"In  Greece,"  said  Pemberton,  "when  they  want 
to  say  a  man  is  a  clever,  long-headed  chap,  they 
call  him  an  ass.  Of  all  asses,  the  Spanish  is  the 
wisest.  The  peasants  work  them  hard,  abuse  them 
a  little,  but  they  love  them  and  treat  them  like 
members  of  the  family;  that  is  why  they  are  so  in- 
telligent." 

We  were  passing  through  gray  olive  groves,  be- 
tween fields  of  emerald  wheat:  golden  butterflies 
hovered  about  the  wild  lavender  growing  by  the 
wayside.  Here  and  there,  peeping  from  orchard 
and  ploughed  field,  were  bits  of  ruins,  all 
that  is  left  of  the  once  splendid  forum,  the  temples 


158      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

and  palaces  of  the  old  Roman  city  of  Italica.     At 
the  guardian's  hut,  where  we  stopped  to  inquire 
the  way  to  the  circus,  we  saw  a  few  poor  antiquities, 
some  Roman  lamps  and  fragments  of  sculpture. 
The  guardian  was  absent,  and  we  looked  in  vain 
for  a  trace  of  the  fine  Roman  mosaic  pavement  dis- 
covered a  hundred  years  ago,  of  which  we  had  heard. 
A  poor  monk,  Fray  Jose  Moscoso,  built  a  wall 
round  it,  hoping  to  preserve  the  precious  thing, 
but  Soult's  French  soldiers  destroyed  it  by  turning 
the  enclosure  into  a  goat  pen.     There  is  an  engrav- 
ing of  this  mosaic  in  the  Biblioteca  Columbina  at 
Seville.     When  the  archaeologists  come  to  Spain, — 
or  rather  when    the  Spanish  archaeologists  carry 
their  work  farther,  —  there  will  be  a  rich  treasure 
trove.     Very  little  scientific  excavation  has  been 
undertaken  yet.     The  soil,  so  rich  in  archaeological 
as  well  as  in  mineral  and  agricultural  wealth,  has 
hardly  been  scratched.     That  is  one  of  the  interest- 
ing things  about  Spain,  —  it  has  still  so  much  to  do. 
With  all  its  wonderful,  romantic  past,  it  is  still  a 
young  country,  with  a  great  future  before  it.     The 
Spaniards  have  been  so  busy  keeping  the  East  out 
of  the  West,  fighting  the  battles  of  other  nations, 
keeping  those  wretched  Bourbons  on  the  thrones  of 
Italy  where  they  were  not  wanted,  opening  up  the 
New  World  and  making  Spanish  America,  that 
they  have  neglected  Spain.     That  was  yesterday. 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  159 

To-day  all  is  changed.  Spain  has  pulled  on  the 
seven-league  boots  of  the  giant  Progress,  and  is 
striding  manfully  ahead,  making  up  for  lost  time. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  turn  one's  back  upon  the 
great  army  of  ghosts  at  Seville  in  Fair  time,  when  life 
is  at  the  flood  and  the  pulses  leap  with  the  thrill  of 
it;  in  Sevilla  Vieja,  the  old  Roman  city  of  Italica, 
it  can't  be  done.  Here  are  none  but  ghosts,  and  one 
old  gabaloonzy  man  who  acts,  in  the  absence  of  the 
true  guardian,  as  our  guide;  he  is  a  shepherd  and 
his  sheep  crop  the  grass  that  grows  over  Italica. 
He  stopped  his  knitting  to  pick  a  wild  orchid  rooted 
into  the  crumbling  arch  of  the  old  Roman  amphi- 
theatre. 

"Mire,"  he  said;  "this  is  the  bee  flower.  Can 
you  see  the  bee?" 

His  needles  clicked  again,  the  only  sound  in  the 
great  circus  save  the  noise  of  the  sheep  cropping  the 
grass  of  the  arena.  In  and  out  of  the  crimson  alfalfa 
and  the  wild  thyme,  buzzed  the  wild  bees  gathering 
honey.  They  made  a  soft  humming,  at  first  con- 
fused, then  growing  clearer  and  clearer,  till  the  faint 
hints  of  meaning  in  their  song  seemed  to  grow 
into  words: 

"Scipio  Africanus  founded  me,"  sang  the  bees, 
speaking  for  Italica,  "as  a  refuge  for  his  veterans 
after  the  great  war  with  Carthage." 

Out   of   the  shadowy  archway  leading  to  the 


160      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

wild  beast  dens,  a  stronger  shadow  fell  on  the 
grass.  Here,  in  the  city  his  love  and  care  estab- 
lished for  the  old  soldiers  who  followed  him  to 
victory  and  immortal  glory,  I  saw  magnanimous 
Scipio,  and  at  his  side,  a  fainter  pair,  Allutius  the 
Celtiberian  prince,  with  the  fair  woman  both  men 
loved,  and  whom  the  Roman,  when  he  learned  that 
she  was  affianced  to  Allutius,  renounced,  refusing 
all  ransom,  and  asking  as  his  only  recompense 
the  friendship  of  Allutius  for  the  Republic.  It 
was  not  stranger  than  all  the  rest  that  the  shade 
of  the  bride  looked  like  Trinidad. 

"Three  Emperors  I  gave  to  Rome,  —  Trajan, 
Hadrian,  Theodosius!"  ran  the  song  of  the  bees, 
speaking  for  Italica  forsaken. 

Trajan  —  the  good  emperor  of  whom  Rome  still 
gossips  and  has  so  little  harm  to  say  ?  Why,  it  was 
only  the  other  day  that  standing  by  your  tomb  in 
the  Eternal  City,  in  your  forum,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  great  column  that  bears  the  record  of  your  tri- 
umphs, I  heard  the  old  story,  told  and  retold  by 
poet,  painter  and  sculptor;  how  clear  it  echoes 
through  the  ages!  As  you  rode  forth  to  battle,  a 
poor  widow  stood  at  your  bridle  and  would  not  let 
you  pass,  crying  out  for  justice  for  her  son,  whom 
your  soldiers  had  ridden  down  and  killed,  inno- 
cent of  ill.  You  stopped  on  your  triumphant  way 
and  gave  that  justice  the  poor  woman  cried  out 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  161 

for,  then  rode  on  to  victory.  Five  centuries  after 
your  death,  in  the  time  of  Pope  Gregory  the  Great, 
your  skull  was  found,  with  the  tongue  still  alive,  so 
the  great  Gregory  was  able  to  hold  parley  with 
you. 

"Trajan!  Trajan!  Where  art  thou?"  cried 
Gregory. 

"In  hell,"  answered  the  Emperor. 

"Why  art  thou  in  hell?" 

"Because  I  was  not  baptized!" 

At  hearing  this  the  grief  of  Gregory  was  so  great 
that  he  went  into  the  old  church  of  St.  Peter,  and 
wept  for  Trajan  in  hell.  And  the  tears  of  Pope 
Gregory  fell  down  into  hell,  and  quenched  the 
flames  of  Trajan's  torment. 

I  tell  the  tale  as  it  was  told  to  me  by  Giacomo 
Boni,  at  the  foot  of  Trajan's  column  in  the  city  of 
Rome.  The  spirit  of  Trajan  has  laid  hold  of  Boni, 
even  as  it  laid  hold  of  the  great  Gregory,  and  he, 
too,  arises  to  demand  for  Trajan  the  Just  the  tribute 
of  our  love. 

When  the  others  came  back,  I  told  Pember- 
ton  what  had  happened  in  the  old  circus,  while  they 
had  been  hunting  for  the  forum  of  Ubs  Italica. 

" You'll  find  us  dull  company  after  such!"  he 
laughed.  "  Visits  from  Scipio  Africanus  and  Trajan 
are  more  exciting  than  one's  neighbors,  and  much 
more  easily  returned." 


162      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"The  trouble  is  such  friendships  are  so  one- 
sided!'* Patsy  objected.  "What  can  I  do  for 
Marcus  Aurelius  ?  The  greatest  Spaniard  of  them 
all.  He  has  done  so  much  for  me.  His  *  Medita- 
tions '  made  me  think  for  the  first  time  in  my  life." 

"Haven't  you  learned  yet  that  you  can  never 
return  a  real  benefit  to  the  person  who  con- 
ferred it  ?  You  can  only  hand  it  on,  pay  the  debt  to 
the  first  needy  person  you  meet.  Are  we  not  all 
debtors  to  Greeks  and  Barbarians?  All  we  can 
ever  do  for  the  dead  is  to  keep  their  names  from 
dying;  and,  what  is  so  much  more  important,  keep 
alive  the  flame  that  was  in  them,  kindle  other  souls 
as  they  kindled  yours.  The  fire  Prometheus  stole 
from  heaven  never  goes  out;  it  is  carried  from  soul 
to  soul  as  one  torch  is  kindled  from  another,  till  the 
whole  earth  shall  be  lighted  and  no  dark  places  left. 
The  shame  of  shames  is  to  have  received  that  fire, 
and  let  the  flame  of  it  go  out  in  you!" 

A  peasant  man  and  woman,  evidently  strangers, 
strayed  into  the  arena,  and  stood  staring  at  the 
moss-covered  stones.  The  man,  a  decent  fellow 
with  a  pleasant  smile  and  no  teeth,  greeted  the  knit- 
ting shepherd. 

"This  perhaps  is  the  ruin  of  some  great  palace  ?" 
he  said. 

"It  is  the  bull-ring,"  the  shepherd  corrected, 
"they  say  there  was  a  city  here  once;  you  can  see 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  163 

where  the  streets  were;  there  are  also  bits  of  old 
churches  and  houses." 

"Valgame  Dios!"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  "per- 
haps this  was  an  important  town,  before  it  was 
ruined  a  hundred  years  ago  or  more!" 

"No  se  sabe"  said  the  shepherd  indifferently. 
He  called  his  dog,  who  began  to  herd  the  sheep, 
running  round  and  round  them  in  a  circle  and  bark- 
ing furiously.  The  sun  was  westering;  it  lacked 
but  an  hour  of  setting;  we  were  five  miles  from  our 
dinner,  and  reluctantly  we  turned  our  backs  on 
Italica,  the  buried  city,  with  its  twice  ten  hundred 
years,  and  drove  back  to  Seville. 

"It  is  a  pestilential  trait, —  this  pulling  down  old 
cities  to  build  new;"  said  Pemberton,  as  we  drove 
through  the  wretched  village  of  Santiponce. 
"They  pulled  down  Italica  to  get  building  material 
for  Seville.  Only  the  other  day,  hardly  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago,  they  took  some  of 
the  stone  of  the  old  circus  to  make  the  road  to 
Badajos.  Men  build  cities  as  birds  build  nests; 
not  many  birds  are  satisfied  with  last  year's  nests, 
not  many  men  with  other  men's  cities." 

"Have  you  heard,"  called  Patsy  from  the  other 
carriage,  as  with  derisive  hoots  they  passed  us  on 
the  old  Roman  road,  "Don  Jaime  goes  with  us  to 
Cordova." 

"As  you  please,"  said  the  Don;  "or  take  ship  and 


164      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

make  a  little  crusade  in  the  Mediterranean,  —  to 
Morocco,  if  you  will/* 

The  next  day  we  left  Seville,  stopping  on  the  way 
to  the  station  for  a  last  look  at  the  cathedral.  We 
entered  by  way  of  the  Court  of  Oranges,  paused  be- 
neath the  orange  trees  laden  with  fruit  and  blos- 
soms, and  drew  long  breaths  of  the  delicious  fra- 
grance. Here  Concepcion  and  Trinidad  joined 
us.  Both  wore  the  mantilla,  still  de  rigeur  for  early 
mass.  Concepcion  had  a  yellow  rose  in  her  curls 
to  match  her  fan.  Trinidad  carried  a  bunch  of 
white  rosebuds;  she  was  wearing  her  own  dress  to- 
day; it  showed  the  curves  of  beauty  better  than  that 
loose  frock  of  Concepcion's !  Both  young  women 
looked  fresh  as  roses  with  the  night  dew  still  on 
them,  and  smelt  pleasantly  of  orange-flower  water. 
As  we  stood  gossiping  by  the  old  fountain,  a  pretty 
altar  boy  in  white  and  scarlet  finery  came  towards  us, 
swinging  a  gold  censer  to  keep  the  coals  alight.  As 
he  passed  he  looked  at  Trinidad,  and  seemed  to 
swing  the  censer  towards  her :  for  a  moment  we  saw 
her  in  a  cloud  of  blue  incense  smoke. 

We  made  the  tour  of  the  cathedral,  and  took  leave 
of  Murillo's  Guardian  Angel  and  his  San  Antonio. 
A  shaft  of  sunlight  carried  the  stain  of  the  painted 
glass,  ruby,  topaz,  emerald,  to  the  columns  under 
the  round  window  of  the  Assumption.  The  golden 
mass  bells  tinkled;  they  were  saying  mass  in  the 


•r. 

- 
CO 


a  ^ 


A  HOUSE  IN  SEVILLE  165 

chapel  royal  before  the  silver  altar  where  Saint  Fer- 
dinand is  buried.  Alive,  he  was  King  Ferdinand 
III ;  dead,  he  became  a  saint,  because  with  his  own 
hands  he  had  carried  fagots  to  burn  heretics.  A 
sound  of  hammers  echoed  through  the  great  cathe- 
dral. 

"The  fiestas  are  over,"  said  Pemberton;  "they 
are  taking  down  the  monument  over  the  tomb  of 
Ferdinand  Columbus." 

As  we  passed  out  through  the  Puerta  del  Lagarte 
under  the  great  crocodile,  the  twin  organs  thun- 
dered, the  choir  sang  a  deep  "Amen,"  the  bells  in 
the  Giralda  clanged  a  parting  peal. 

"Heavens!"  murmured  Patsy,  as  from  the  train 
window  we  looked  back  at  the  darling  of  Andalusia, 
lying  in  the  fold  of  Guadalquiver's  arm,  "  what  a 
beautiful  world  this  is!"  He  blinked  as  he  said 
it,  as  if  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Quien  no  ha  vista  Sevitta, 
no  ha  vista  maravilla" 


VII 
CORDOVA 

Other  towns  may  be  better  to  live  in.  None  are  better  to 
be  born  in  than  Cordova. — EL  GRAN  CAPITAN 

THE  old  Roman  engineer  who  built  Cordova 
Bridge  did  a  good  piece  of  work,*'  said 
Patsy.  "See,  those  are  his  foundations;  they  are 
solid  still, —  it  is  a  good  bridge  yet !  The  arches  are 
paltry,  modern  things  beside  them;  they  were  put 
up  centuries  later  by  a  Moor  called  As-Sahn.  It 
does  not  seem  fair  that  his  name  should  be  remem- 
bered, and  the  Roman's  forgotten." 

The  Roman's  work  is  not  forgotten,  and  will  not  be, 
while  Cordova  Bridge  stands,  and  while  the  city  arms 
remain  a  bridge  on  water.  The  weeds  push  between 
the  great  stones,  a  lovely  enamel  of  orange  lichen 
covers  the  staunch  old  piers,  around  which  the  am- 
ber Guadalquiver  laps  and  murmurs.  The  white 
highroad  follows  the  river  south  to  Seville;  the  way 
north  is  barred  by  a  range  of  purple  Sierras. 

Not  even  in  Italica  is  the  mark  of  Rome  stronger 


THE  MOSQUE,  CORDOVA. 


THE  MOSQUE,  CORDOVA. 


CORDOVA  167 

than  in  Cordova;  the  old  bridge,  the  names  of  the 
streets,  the  memories  of  the  famous  Roman  citizens 
who  were  born  here,  bring  imperial  Rome  to  mind 
at  every  moment.  The  Romans  came  to  Cordova 
as  conquerors  carrying  the  eagles  through  Spain ;  they 
made  the  city  the  capital  of  Hispania  Ulterior,  and 
called  it  the  Patrician  Colony  because  so  many  of 
the  Romans  who  settled  here  and  married  the  grace- 
ful, dark-eyed  Cordovese  women  were  of  patrician 
descent.  The  Roman  rule,  harsh  at  first,  grew  gen- 
tler, for  while  Rome  ruled,  Christianity  came  to  Cor- 
dova, and  pagan  slavery  softened  to  a  milder  form 
of  vassalage. 

"A  man  can  do  one  of  two  things  with  his  life," 
Patsy  philosophized,  "Build  it  all  up  into  a  mon- 
ument to  his  own  memory,  or  lay  it  down  in  paving 
stones  —  or  a  bridge  —  for  other  people  to  walk 
aver.  Which  is  the  best  worth  while  ?  As  if  one 
could  choose ! "  He  dropped  a  stone  into  the  water, 
and  watched  the  circles  spread  into  larger  and 
larger  rings. 

We  had  arrived  at  Cordova  too  late  to  see  the 
Mosque,  and  had  come  directly  from  the  station  to 
the  bridge  to  watch  the  thin  current  of  life  and 
traffic  pulsing  in  and  out  of  the  dead  alive  old  town. 
There  is  no  place  like  a  bridge  for  gathering  impres- 
sions of  a  strange  city. 

"He  he,  Macho!"  an  old  muleteer  with  gold 


168      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

earrings  threw  a  stone  at  the  brown  mule,  leader  of 
his  team,  just  in  time  to  prevent  his  running  into  a 
donkey  that  was  crossing  the  bridge  in  the  other 
direction,  laden  with  paniers  full  of  terra  cotta  jars. 
Before  the  mule  train  had  disappeared,  we  heard  a 
great  clatter  and  rattling  of  loose  screws  and  rivets, 
as  an  old  chaise  came  lumbering  along  the  white 
highroad  from  the  direction  of  Seville,  and  stopped 
at  the  bridge  gate.  The  custom-house  officer,  doz- 
ing on  his  bench,  woke  up,  and  asked  the  usual  tire- 
some question. 

"Have  their  Graces  anything  to  declare?" 

The  gentleman  Grace,  apparently  deaf,  behaved 
as  if  he  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  the  officer,  and 
had  only  stopped  to  flick  a  horsefly  from  his  fat 
white  mare.  The  lady  Grace  shook  her  silver 
curls. 

"  No,  nothing  to  declare,"  she  said. 

Strapped  to  the  back  of  the  chaise  was  a  cylin- 
drical, horsehair  trunk,  studded  with  brass  nails. 

"  What  might  this  contain  ?  "  The  officer  touched 
the  trunk. 

"Only  our  garments;  we  have  been  spending  a 
week  at  the  hacienda." 

"  Open  it,  please.     How  is  this,  a  ham  ?  " 

"Our  own.  The  tax  was  paid  when  the  pig  was 
killed;  twelve  pesetas.  It  was  far  too  much." 

"That  is  another  matter.     You  must  pay  the  tax 


CORDOVA  169 

on  provisions  brought  into  the  city  as  well."  The 
officer  weighed  the  ham,  and  began  to  make  a  calcu- 
lation with  pencil  and  note-book.  "There  is  also 
to  be  added  the  fine  for  not  having  declared  the 
ham." 

The  lady's  eyes  snapped  angrily,  as  she  gave  the 
officer  a  piece  of  her  mind.  "You  are  a  miserable 
loafer!  It  is  to  pay  salaries  to  such  lazy  fellows  as 
you  that  honest  people  are  robbed  of  their  honest 
money!" 

It  was  growing  late.  By  the  time  the  ham  was 
settled  for,  the  vivid  blue  of  the  western  sky  had 
turned  soft  apple-green.  We  climbed  a  crazy 
stair  to  the  window  of  the  gate,  to  avoid  a  drove  of 
cattle  driven  across  the  bridge  by  a  vaquero  in  a 
brown  capote.  The  comfortable  smell  of  kine  came 
in  at  the  window.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Guadal- 
quiver,  in  the  golden  haze  of  dust  kicked  up  by  those 
silly,  helter-skeltering  cows,  lay  Cordova.  Before 
us  rose  the  great  Mosque;  in  the  centre  the  tower- 
ing masonry  of  the  Christian  Cathedral  stood  out 
in  bold  outline  against  the  distant  Sierra.  The  sun 
set  quietly  in  the  quiet  sky ;  a  few  minutes  after,  the 
whole  heaven  was  aflame  with  the  glorious  crimson 
after-glow;  the  river  ran  red;  the  whole  earth  shone 
with  the  reflection.  The  sunset  was  like  the  death 
of  some  great  and  unsuspected  saint,  some  humble 
man,  the  glory  of  whose  life  is  only  known  when 


170       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

he  has  gone  and  the  whole  world  is  filled  with  the 
light  of  the  soul  that  has  just  passed  from  it. 

"The  moon  will  soon  be  up,"  said  Patsy.  "Let 
us  wait  for  it.  We  are  not  likely  to  see  sunset  and 
moonrise  from  Cordova  bridge  again." 

The  custom-house  officer  made  room  for  us  on 
his  wooden  bench.  As  we  sat  watching  the  swal- 
lows flit  back  and  forth  over  the  river,  Patsy  told  us 
stories  about  the  great  men  who  had  lived  at  Cor- 
dova, and  we  all  made  believe  we  saw  them  cross 
the  old  bridge.  A  tall  military  man  with  a  clank- 
ing sword  passed  through  the  gate. 

;<  There  goes  Marcellus,  the  Tribune  who  con- 
quered Cordova  for  Rome;  our  friend  the  engineer 
must  have  come  here  soon  after  him;  isn't  it  a  pity 
we  can't  find  his  name,  when  such  silly  ones  are 
remembered  ?" 

"He  built  a  good  bridge;  does  it  matter  whether 
he  was  called  Caius  or  Cassius  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  it  matters  to  me,"  Patsy  persisted. 
"There  was  another  Marcellus  who  came  to  Cor- 
dova later,  in  Julius  Caesar's  time.  How  talent 
runs  in  families!  Caesar  sent  him  to  rebuild  the 
town  after  he  had  half  destroyed  it  for  taking 
Pompey's  side  in  that  old  quarrel  we  boys  used  to 
fight  over  again  at  school.  The  Senecas  came  from 
here,  too;  there  is  a  square  named  for  them.  You 
remember  the  story  about  Seneca's  wife  ?  When 


CORDOVA  171 

Nero  sent  word  that  Seneca  must  die,  both  he  and 
his  wife  opened  the  veins  in  their  arms.  Seneca, 
who  was  much  older  than  his  wife,  died  first,  where- 
upon Madam's  women  bound  up  her  veins,  and  she 
lived  several  years  after.  There  was  talent  in  that 
family,  too;  the  father  was  a  writer,  and  Lucan, 
the  poet,  was  either  a  cousin  or  nephew.  Hullo! 
Look  at  the  folds  of  that  old  beggar's  capa;  doesn't 
it  look  like  a  toga  ?  Now  remember  that  cantanker- 
ous face  of  Seneca's  in  the  bust  at  the  Naples 
Museum,  and  if  you  can't  see  Nero's  tutor  potter- 
ing over  that  old  bridge  you've  no  imagination!  " 

The  swallows  had  all  gone  to  their  nests;  the 
soft,  fumbling  flight  of  a  pair  of  small  bats  wove  a 
pattern  against  the  fading  sky. 

"That  portly  gentleman  on  the  white  mule 
might  well  be  Hosius,  one  time  Bishop  of  Cordova. 
You  never  heard  of  him,  perhaps,  but  you  must 
have  heard  of  the  Nicene  Creed,"  Patsy  went  on. 
It  was  evident  that  we  had  to  listen  to  all  he  knew 
about  Cordova. 

"The  next  time  you  hear  that  creed  repeated, 
remember  Hosius,  Bishop  here  in  Cordova  for  sixty- 
three  years;  he  presided  at  the  Council  of  Nicea 
when  the  creed  was  made.  That  was  after  he  had 
failed  in  the  task  Constantine  set  him  of  persuading 
Arius  to  give  up  the  Unitarian  heresy.  Think  how 
often  he  must  have  ambled  over  this  old  bridge." 


172       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

It  always  has  been  hard  to  persuade  people  to 
give  up  the  Unitarian  heresy !  Whenever  I  hear  the 
Nicene  creed,  I  shall  think  of  Bishop  Hosius  whom, 
that  night  of  nights,  we  saw  ride  across  the  old  Ro- 
man bridge  at  Cordova  on  a  white  mule. 

"The  one  I  should  like  best  to  have  known  of  all 
the  great  men  who  ever  lived  at  Cordova  was  the 
Caliph  Abd-er-Rahman.  What  a  man  he  was! 
Servant  of  the  compassionate,  they  called  him. 
That  is  his  Mosque,  those  are  his  palms;  he  planted 
the  great-grandfathers  of  those  trees  with  his  own 
hand.  If  you  could  make  Seneca's  toga  out  of  that 
old  beggar's  capa,  can't  you  see  Abd-er-Rahman's 
bournous  in  that  young  fellow's  cloak  ?  He  is  as 
dark  as  an  Arab;  the  red  handkerchief  knotted 
round  his  head  under  the  sombrero  makes  a  decent 
turban.  He  has  the  swagger  of  a  torrero.  Con- 
queror of  bulls,  conqueror  of  men,  where  is  the  dif- 
ference ?  Toga,  bournous,  capa,  —  all  three  gar- 
ments are  practically  the  same." 

"What  do  you  suppose  Gonsalvo  de  Cordova, 
El  Gran  Capitan  wore?" 

"A  cloak  like  the  rest  of  them,  I  fancy.  There 
are  a  great  many  things  named  for  him  in  the  city 
over  there:  a  theatre,  a  paseo,  I  don't  know  what 
else.  In  poetry  they  call  him  the  Scourge  of  Islam. 
When  I  showed  Don  Jaime  a  rather  steep  bill,  he 
whistled,  and  said  'They  have  made  you  out  the 


CORDOVA  173 

account  of  el  Gran  Capitan.'  The  size  of  the  bills 
he  presented  to  Ferdinand  and  Isabel  for  scourging 
the  infidel  is  the  thing  he  is  best  remembered  for  in 
Cordova." 

"That's  gossip;  history  says  he  really  was  a  great 
captain,"  I  protested. 

"According  to  the  proverb,  it  is  the  blood  of  the 
soldier  makes  the  great  captain,"  said  Patsy.  "As 
to  history,  Martial  says;  — '  Give  up  frivolous  fable 
and  read  history ! '  He  also  says,  *  Fool  that  I  was! 
Why  did  I  not  follow  the  advice  I  gave  Mamura  ?' 
But,  truly,  isn't  to-day's  gossip,  to-morrow's 
history?" 

"To-morrow's  history  will  be  rheumatism  if  we 
stay  mooning  here  any  longer,"  J.  said  firmly. 
"Right  about  face,  homeward,  march!" 

After  dinner,  as  he  sat  writing  postal  cards  to  be 
despatched  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  Patsy 
made  acquaintance,  over  the  inkstand,  with  the 
Argentine.  He  was  a  tall  man  with  a  close-cut, 
pointed  beard  that  had  been  gold  and  would  soon 
be  silver,  and  fiery  brown  eyes  that  would  always  be 
young. 

"So  you  are  an  American,  too?"  I  heard  him 
say  to  Patsy.  "  Are  you  from  the  States  ?" 

"  Yes;  I  took  you  for  a  Spaniard." 

"No,  I  am  an  American  from  the  Argentine." 

We  left  Patsy  and  the  stranger  plunged  in  talk. 


174       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Half  an  hour  later,  Patsy  brought  his  new  acquaint- 
ance to  our  room. 

"It's  raining  so  hard  we  can't  go  out,"  he  whis- 
pered; "this  is  the  most  comfortable  place  in  the 
house  —  he  is  a  kind  of  an  American  — " 

"  This  is '  a  good  Son  of  the  Way,'  that  is  what  the 
Arabs  call  a  traveller,"  said  the  Argentine,  looking 
at  Patsy.  "  He  makes  a  friend  as  a  sailor  makes  a 
sweetheart,  between  tides,  waiting  for  his  ship  to 
sail." 

It  was  pouring  now.  Beside  the  noise  of  the  rain 
on  the  roof  we  heard,  every  now  and  then,  a  strange 
sobbing  sigh. 

"  Grrr !  Isn't  that  a  creepy  noise  ?  If  I  were  not 
broad  awake  and  looking  at  you  all  by  electric  light, 
I  should  believe  those  were  the  ghosts  of  the  great 
men  of  Cordova  lamenting  the  departed  glory  of 
their  city." 

"I  wish  they  were,"  said  the  Argentine.  "They 
could  tell  me  just  where  the  old  Iberian  village 
stood,  when  the  Phoenicians  came  punting  up  the 
river  and  discovered  it,  just  as  our  people  poked  up 
the  rivers  in  America,  and  discovered  the  Indian 
pueblos." 

"Tell  them  what  you  were  telling  me,"  said 
Patsy.  "  He  has  been  here  ever  so  long,  and  has  fer- 
reted out  a  lot  of  interesting  things  about  Cordova." 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell  that  you  don't  know. 


CORDOVA  175 

The  old  game  of  civilization  is  going  on  in  the  world 
to-day  just  as  it  was  then.  You  have  only  to  cross 
the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  and  go  over  to  Morocco  and 
up  into  the  Atlas  Mountains  to  find  a  Kabyl  village 
very  like  the  primitive  Iberian  pueblo  the  Greeks 
and  Phoenicians  found  here.  The  French  may  be 
a  little  quicker  about  civilizing  Morocco  than  the 
Phoenicians  and  Greeks  were  in  civilizing  the 
Peninsula,  though  I  doubt  it." 

"You  said,"  Patsy  insisted,  "that  you  had  seen 
some  things  in  a  museum  that  gave  you  a  pretty 
clear  idea  of  how  they  lived  in  Cordova,  when  it  be- 
longed to  Carthage." 

"I  saw  some  recent  finds  made  in  a  mound  not 
far  from  here,"  said  the  Argentino.  "A  bust 
which  they  call  the  Lady  of  Elche  that  has  some- 
thing of  the  early  Greek  feeling.  After  seeing  these 
things  and  reading  all  I  could  lay  hands  on  about 
them,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Cordova  must 
have  been  a  pretty  civilized  place  under  the  Repub- 
lic of  Carthage.  The  people  had  gold  and  silver 
vessels,  —  the  Greeks  have  a  story  that  the  anchors 
of  their  galleys  were  gold.  They  certainly  had 
ivory  combs,  for  I  have  seen  them,  and  Greek  vases 
and  Celtic  pottery  —  geometric  raised  patterns  and 
all  —  and  coins  stamped  with  a  winged  horse. 
Then  we  know  all  about  their  wool,  what  fine  cloth 
they  made,  and  that  famous  scarlet  dye  of  the 


176      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

kermes  that  ran  the  Tyrian  purple  so  hard  in  the 
markets  of  the  East." 

"Those  markets  of  the  East  another  republic 
hankers  to  supply,"  Patsy  put  in. 

"Take  up  the  white  man's  burden  and  put  it  on  the  back 
Of  every  yaller  nigger  and  kick  him  when  he's  slack. 
They've  got  to  wear  our  cotton,  they've  got  to  drink  our  gin, 
And  pay  our  missionaries  to  save  their  souls  from  sin." 

He  threw  open  the  window  and  leaned  out. 

" It  has  stopped  raining.  My  wig!  do  you  smell 
the  flowers  ?  I  can  make  out  jasmine,  acacia,  and 
mignonette.  Spanish  flowers  seem  to  grow  with 
their  perfume  already  triple  distilled." 

"They  are  the  most  fragrant  in  the  world,"  said 
the  Argentino.  "Don't  sleep  with  your  windows 
open,  if  you  are  afraid  of  headache!  Now  you 
want  to  go  to  bed,  this  Son  of  the  Way  and  I  will 
say  good  night  to  you." 

A  few  minutes  later  Patsy's  laugh,  a  whiff  of  the 
Argentino's  cigarette,  some  broken  fragments  of 
their  talk  floated  in  at  the  window,  as  they  walked 
up  and  down  in  the  garden  outside. 

"The  original  inhabitants  of  Spain  —  what  they 
call  the  Iberians  —  "  said  the  Argentino. 

"Where  did  they  come  from?"  Patsy  inter- 
rupted. 

"Nobody  knows;  they  weren't  Aryans.     In  the 


CORDOVA  177 

Neolithic  Age  a  very  dark  race,  with  long  heads, 
and  thick  curling  hair  inhabited  the  whole  Penin- 
sula — " 

"I  do  not  propose  going  back  to  the  beginning 
of  time  to-night;"  said  J.  as  he  shut  the  window. 
"That  boy's  thirst  for  information  —  easily  ac- 
quired —  will  get  us  into  trouble  yet.  Don  Jaime 
comes  to-morrow.  How  will  he  and  this  new  friend 
get  along?" 

I  had  already  asked  myself  that  question. 

"  Did  the  norias  keep  you  awake  ?  "  Patsy  asked 
at  breakfast  the  next  morning.  "What  we  heard 
last  night  was  not  the  sighs  of  ghosts,  but  the  noise 
of  the  pumping  machines  that  supply  the  houses  with 
water!" 

Our  rooms  looked  into  a  walled  garden,  with 
flower-beds  framed  in  geometrical  designs,  sur- 
rounded by  nice  thick  box  borders.  There  was  a 
superb  syringa  in  full  bloom  that  looked  like  ivory 
and  smelt  like  honey.  The  jasmines  were  trained 
against  the  wall.  The  roses  were  glorious.  In  an 
outer  court,  where  the  poultry  lived,  a  patriarchal  fig- 
tree  shaded  a  row  of  old-fashioned  wooden  beehives. 
Under  a  pergola  covered  by  grape-vines  stood  a  tiny 
house  no  bigger  than  a  sentry-box;  in  the  house 
sat  Vicente.  His  voice  waked  us  each  morning 
with  a  fierce  but  tremulous  cry : 


178       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"Andar,  Morisco!" 

Close  to  the  sentry-box  was  the  noria.  Morisco, 
a  tall  mule  hitched  to  a  pole,  and  blindfolded  so 
that  he  should  not  grow  dizzy,  walked  round  and 
round  in  a  circle,  faithfully  pumping  the  water, 
while  Vicente  alternately  slept  and  exhorted  him 
to  "go!"  The  red-haired  waiter  told  us  Vicente's 
story.  In  his  youth  he  had  been  head  gardener  on 
a  Grandee's  estate.  For  twenty  years  he  had  been 
attached  to  the  hotel.  He  was  now  ninety-five 
years  old.  A  few  months  before  his  wife  had  died, 
at  the  age  of  one  hundred.  Until  then,  Vicente  had 
lived  at  home.  Now  that  there  is  nobody  to  cook 
and  wash  for  him,  the  proprietor  gives  him  a  room 
in  the  hotel,  his  food,  his  clothes,  a  little  money  for 
cigarettes;  for  his  companion,  Morisco. 

As  we  entered  the  garden,  Vicente  awoke  with  a 
start,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  jerked  the  mule's 
bridle. 

"  Andar,  Morisco ! "  The  patient  mule,  who  had 
worked  while  Vicente  slept,  trod  his  weary  round  a 
little  faster,  the  clatter  of  his  hoofs  mingling  with  the 
droning  creak,  creak  of  the  noria. 

A  brown  girl  passed  from  the  outer  court,  where 
she  had  been  taking  down  the  washing,  half  hidden 
by  the  pile  of  linen  in  her  arms. 

" He,  he!  Basta  aqua,  Vicente!"  she  cried,  and 
went  into  the  hot  laundry  with  her  linen. 


CORDOVA  179 

"Muy  bien,  Rafaela."  Vicente  sneezed,  re- 
lighted his  cigarette,  with  trembling  hands  unhar- 
nessed Morisco,  and  toddled  off  with  him  to  the 
stable.  In  a  few  moments  the  old  man  came  back, 
and  pottered  about  the  garden,  making  his  tour  of 
inspection.  Nothing  escaped  his  wise  old  eyes. 
He  crushed  a  snail  that  was  devouring  a  vel- 
vety pansy,  nipped  off  an  overblown  peony, 
stripped  the  buds  and  foliage  so  ruthlessly  from  a 
fine  red  carnation  that  I  had  to  ask  him  the  reason. 

"This  work  should  have  been  done  in  September, 
but  I  was  not  here  then.  We  shall  have  poor  car- 
nations this  year.'*  From  the  look  of  them  —  they 
were  only  just  coming  into  bloom  —  they  would 
have  taken  a  prize  anywhere  out  of  Spain. 

"The  carnation  plant  has  need  of  cleanliness 
like  a  person.  What  I  take  off  is  its  misery.  See, 
these  are  nothing  but  leaves;  they  do  no  good,  they 
only  take  the  strength.  These  are  children;  there 
are  too  many  of  them!  Sacrifice  these  three  little 
buds,  and  in  fourteen  days  this  large  one  will  make 
a  carnation  so  big."  He  joined  his  palsied  hands 
at  the  finger  tips  to  show  me  the  size.  He  had 
thrown  some  of  the  "misery"  carelessly  on  the 
ground,  some  he  had  laid  carefully  in  a  pile. 

"Those  I  threw  away  are  nothing  but  leaves  and 
children.  These  others  are  little  plants,  you  see  the 
difference?  I  shall  plant  all  these;  not  one  must 


180      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

be  lost.  It  is  so  late  many  will  not  grow,  but  I  shall 
get  some  good  ones.  Very  soon  they  will  throw  out 
roots,  then  I  shall  transplant  them;  next  season 
they  will  bear.  The  carnation  is  only  good  for  three 
years;  the  second  season  is  the  best.  See,  this  is  an 
old  plant.  We  will  help  it  to  give  its  last  flowers. 
They  will  be  small,  but  of  a  good  variety."  He 
stirred  the  earth  about  the  roots,  and  mixed  with  it 
a  trowelful  of  rich  loam. 

"One  might  almost  live  in  a  place  where  they 
grow  such  flowers!"  J.  began. 

"No,  one  might  not!"  cried  Patsy. 

"Vicente  has  been  a  famous  gardener  in  his  day ! " 
the  waiter  had  said  it  more  than  once.  That  ex- 
plains why  the  pear  trees  were  so  well  pruned,  the 
oranges  so  healthy,  why  the  carnations  of  Cordova 
still  bloom  in  my  memory.  A  peacock  strutted 
down  the  brick  path,  hopped  on  the  wall  of  the 
noria,  spread  the  glory  of  his  tail,  turned  his  proud 
head  to  show  the  sapphire  sheen  of  his  neck,  and 
gave  his  strange  cry,  "mahor  manor." 

The  laundry  window  was  open.  We  could  see 
Rafaela's  pretty  head  bent  over  her  ironing,  and 
catch  the  words  she  sang : 

Contrabandista  es  mi  padre,     Contrabandista  is  my  father, 
contrabandista  es  mi  hermano,  Contrabandista  is  my  brother; 
Contrabandista  ha  de  ser  Contrabandista  he  must  be 

aquel  d  quien  de  mi  mano.        To  whom  I  give  my  hand. 


CORDOVA  181 

"The  trouble  with  Cordova  is,  it  is  dead  and  not 
buried,"  said  Patsy.  "It  may  comfort  you  to  know 
it  was  the  first  town  in  Europe  to  have  paved  streets. 
I  believe  they  never  have  been  repaved  since."  We 
were  picking  our  way  over  the  abominable  pave- 
ment of  the  Plazuela  de  Seneca.  A  little  farther  on, 
near  the  Seven  Corners,  is  a  large  house  with  carved 
stone  fa9ade,  handsome  iron  gratings,  and  some- 
thing distinguished  about  it  that  caught  our  atten- 
tion. It  stands  in  a  deserted  plaza  where  the  grass 
grows  between  the  paving  stones.  For  five  minutes 
we  had  met  nobody ,  not  even  a  cat  or  dog .  We  peeped 
into  the  patio.  There  was  no  living  thing  there  ex- 
cept a  fountain  and  a  tame  quail  asleep  in  a  cage. 

"The  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty!"  mur- 
mured Patsy.  We  went  round  behind  the  house  to 
explore.  The  frowsy  little  street  at  the  back  was 
fragrant  with  a  smell  of  new  baked  bread  that  made 
us  hungry.  Through  a  half -closed  gate  we  saw  a 
courtyard  full  of  beggras.  An  inner  door  opened, 
and  the  lady  of  the  silver  curls  whom  we  had  first 
seen  on  Cordova  Bridge  came  out  followed  by  two 
servants  carrying  baskets  filled  with  bread.  The 
beggars  formed  in  line  and  shuffled  past  the  lady, 
who  gave  a  loaf  to  each  and  received  a  blessing  in 
return. 

"Bread  is  given  out  at  this  house  every  Satur- 
day," said  a  little  gentleman  in  a  black  stock,  who 


182       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

was  passing.  "Last  year,  when  there  was  a  death 
in  the  family,  they  gave  alms  for  nine  days.  The 
pordioseros  have  no  better  friend  in  all  Cordova 
than  the  mistress  of  this  house." 

As  the  last  beggar  hobbled  from  the  court,  a  car- 
riage drawn  by  a  pair  of  sleek  mules  drove  out,  with 
two  ladies  and  a  gentleman.  Just  then  Don 
Jaime  came  round  the  corner  in  search  of  us;  he 
bowed  to  the  ladies. 

"Who  are  your  friends?"  Patsy  demanded. 

"The  old  it  is  Duquesa  B.  It  is  no  longer  young, 
but  conserved  very  good,  eh  ?  Her  daughter  it  is 
appelled  Rafaela.  Was  Queen  of  Beauty  at  the 
Yuego  Florales.  To  the  elected  poet  she  gave  the 
prize,  a  natural  rose." 

"He  means  that  they  have  a  Contest  of  Poets 
eveiy  year  here,"  said  Patsy.  "  A  theme  is  given 
out,  a  jury  appointed,  then  the  poems  just  stream  in 
from  all  over  the  province.  From  what  the  Don 
says,  this  old  dustheap  of  a  Cordova  wakes  up  a 
little  at  fair  time.  What  luck  that  we  saw  the 
Beauty!" 

"Did  you  see  who  was  sitting  opposite  her?" 
asked  J.  "It  was  O'Shea." 

"He's  easily  consoled  for  Trinidad."  In  spite 
of  Patsy's  natural  jealousy,  that  meeting  with 
O'Shea  was  a  comfort  to  us  all.  It  seemed  to  bring 
us  out  of  musty,  dusty  Cordova's  dead  past,  and 


CORDOVA  183 

link  us  with  dear,  living  Seville.  In  the  cool  of  the 
afternoon,  the  streets  woke  up  a  little;  there  were 
more  carriages  than  one  would  have  supposed  pos- 
sible in  the  Paseo  of  El  Gran  Capitan. 

That  evening  we  went  to  the  theatre.  The  per- 
formance began  at  half-past  eight.  The  price  of 
box  was  five  pesetas  for  each  play.  There  were 
four  different  pieces,  each  lasting  about  an  hour. 
The  advantage  of  the  system  is,  you  can  drop  into 
a  theatre  early  or  late,  and  are  not  obliged  to  pay 
for  more  of  the  performance  than  you  see.  The 
first  play,  about  a  contrabandista  and  his  sweet- 
heart, a  cigarrera,  was  full  of  gunshots  and  moral- 
ity, and  highly  applauded,  though  the  acting  was 
mediocre.  Patsy,  who  discovered  several  pretty 
girls  in  the  audience,  asked  the  Don  if  the  women  of 
Northern  Spain  were  as  charming  as  in  the  South. 

"Not  all  women  in  Andalusia  is  beautifool,"  the 
Don  admitted,  "but  all  is  gracious;  the  young  gels 
have  a  naturality.  The  Madrilenas,  it  is  affective 
their  manniers  for  to  speak,  it  is  different  from  the 
Andaluz!"  . 

J.  and  I  were  satisfied  with  two  plays.  Patsy 
and  Don  Jaime  stayed  for  the  last,  an  operetta. 

"I  like  him  better  the  music,  it  is  the  end  repre- 
sentation," said  the  Don. 

The  next  day  Pasty  had  a  great  deal  to  tell  us 
about  Cordova.  "There  are  about  twenty  of  the 


184       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

old  aristocratic  families  who  still  live  here,"  he  said. 
"There  is  literally  nothing  for  the  young  men  to  do 
but  loaf  about  the  Club  of  Friendship,  where,  Don 
Jaime  says,  half  the  nobility  of  the  province  have 
been  ruined  by  gambling.  Some  people  he  knows 
have  had  to  sell  their  silver.  They  had  a  complete 
silver  service,  tureen,  vegetable  dishes,  plates,  plat- 
ters, all  the  rest  of  it,  for  every  day.  They  only 
used  their  English  porcelain  for  best;  now  they 
have  to  use  it  every  day.  The  same  people  had 
solid  silver  basins  and  pitchers,  and  dozens  of  those 
stunning  old  repousse  silver  trays  and  platters  they 
used  to  make  here.  You  see  the  Don  knows 
Cordova  well;  he  can  tell  you  more  about  it  in  an 
hour  than  you  could  get  out  of  books  in  a 
year." 

The  Don  twirled  his  mustache  and  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  hair.  "I  have  a  custom  to  come  to 
Cordoba  every  winter,"  he  admitted.  "At  that 
season  all  families  is  at  their  coontry  place  in  the 
hills  for  the  shootings.  In  the  coto  of  my  friend  it  is 
no  luxury,  all  comfort.  The  ladies  go  very  simple, 
put  a  handkerchief  over  the  head,  or  an  old  hat;  the 
children  is  dressed  very  plain,  like  the  poor." 

"Is  the  sport  good  ?"  asked  Patsy. 

"In  my  youth  it  was  more  plenty  the  black  beasts 
(wild  boar).  Now  is  much  deer,  hares,  rabbits, 
partridges." 


CORDOVA  185 

"Do  you  care  about  shooting?"  I  asked.  The 
Don  never  walked  a  step,  if  he  could  avoid  it,  and 
got  up  at  two  in  the  afternoon.  I  could  not  think  of 
him  in  the  light  of  a  sportsman. 

"It  is  the  preferred  sport  of  all  Spanishes 
men  as  of  the  English,"  he  answered.  "The  ladies 
like  the  coontry  very  mooch;  some  of  them  kill  the 
game.  We  have  large  fires  of  great  tree  troonks, 
no  small  pieces  of  woods  like  in  the  city.  In  the 
evening  it  is  very  sociable;  we  gather  at  one  house 
or  another;  there  is  singing  and  dancing.  Ah,  yes, 
the  most  pleasant  life  is  in  the  coontry.  If  the 
guests  come  far,  they  spend  the  night.  It  is  all  so 
simply,  no  like  England.  One  large  room  for  all 
the  ladies;  one  for  all  the  gentlemen." 

I  asked  the  Don  if  they  stayed  in  their  country 
places  in  summer. 

"No,  in  the  spring  they  return  to  Cordoba.  The 
hot  is  very  strong;  here  the  houses  is  prepared  for 
the  hot.  All  people  sit  out  in  the  court.  In  soomer, 
they  go  to  take  another  climate.  The  Sierra  is  not 
good  for  the  health,  it  is  very  humid." 

"He  was  telling  me  last  night,"  said  Patsy,  about 
the  time  Queen  Isabel  II  came  to  Cordova.  He 
was  only  a  boy  then,  but  his  father  was  at  a  banquet 
the  Marquis  de  Benemeji  gave  for  her  at  Quita 
Pesares  —  Away  Cares;  isn't  that  a  good  name  for 
a  garden  ?  The  old  gentleman  must  have  plied  a 


186      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

better  knife  and  fork  than  the  Don,  for  Jaime 
remembers  to  this  day  the  way  his  father  rolled  up 
his  eyes  when  he  told  them  about  the  good  things 
they  had  to  eat.  Aroz  a  la  Valenciana  —  baked 
rice  with  fish,  quails,  green  peas  and  artichokes; 
saddle  of  veal  larded  and  roasted  with  aromatic 
herbs  and  manzanilla,  rice  boiled  in  cream  with  the 
name  of  the  best  guest  at  each  table  traced  in  pow- 
dered cinnamon,  natilla,  a  wonderful  kind  of  cream, 
and  ojaldres, —  a  sort  of  pastry,  light  and  brittle  as 
a  butterfly's  wing,  which  they  eat  with  chocolate. 
When  they  had  eaten  and  drunk  all  that  they  could, 
the  Queen  said  good-bye  and  started  to  go.  What 
do  you  suppose  she  found  at  the  door  ?  A  brand  new 
coach,  Andalusian  style,  with  eight  splendid  cab- 
allos  antigrados  (Cordovan  horses  with  yellow  skins 
marked  like  tigers)  harnessed  Andalusian  fashion, 
with  silver  bells  and  silken  tags.  The  Queen 
hopped  into  the  coach  and  drove  away.  She  took  it 
back  to  Madrid,  where,  the  Don  thinks,  we  can  see 
it  still  in  the  royal  stables.  He  says  Cordova  has 
traditions  to  live  up  to. 

When  the  Queen's  son,  Alfonzo  XII,  came  here, 
the  days  of  coaches  were  gone  by.  The  Grandee 
at  whose  house  the  King  stayed  had  the  railroad 
tracks  laid  through  the  streets  to  his  door,  so  that 
the  King  should  not  have  the  trouble  of  driving 
from  the  station  to  the  house." 


CORDOVA  187 

"Speaking  of  railroads,"  said  J.  "I  think  I've 
had  enough  of  Cordova.'* 

"So  have  I,  this  season,"  Patsy  agreed.  "Next 
year,  when  I  make  the  tour  of  all  the  Jerias  of 
Spain,  with  my  friend  the  Mountebank,  I  shall 
come  back  to  Cordova  and  enter  the  Contest  of 
Poets." 

From  that  moment  till  we  left,  I  spent  every  wak- 
ing hour  in  the  Mosque,  the  thing  best  worth  seeing 
in  Cordova.  Outside,  it  looks  more  like  a  fortress 
than  a  sanctuary.  It  has  battlements,  towers  and 
buttresses  quite  in  character  with  the  militant 
Mahommedan  religion,  and  hopelessly  out  of  char- 
acter with  the  Christian.  It  is  grim,  forbidding, 
and  tremendously  impressive  all  at  once!  The 
gates,  the  gates  alone,  give  a  hint  of  the  beauty  in- 
side! The  light,  interlaced,  horseshoe  arches  rest- 
ing on  slender  columns,  and  the  rich  mosaic  over 
the  Puerta  Arabe  are  like  a  foretaste  of  a  feast.  In 
the  splendid  court  of  Oranges,  where  the  trees  are 
planted  in  long  aisles  (they  originally  were  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  aisles  of  the  Mosque) ,  there  are  five 
fountains,  and  fifty  beggars  and  guides.  As  we 
were  making  a  bargain  with  the  youngest  guide  to 
keep  the  others  at  bay,  the  Argentine  came  up  and 
offered  his  services  in  the  place  of  a  guide. 

"I  have  had  them  all,"  he  said;  "and  picked 
their  brains  like  a  corbie." 


188      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

We  sat  on  a  bench  and  watched  the  women  draw- 
ing water  at  the  fountain  while  the  Argentine  —  he 
spoke  English  rather  better  than  any  of  us  —  and 
Patsy  talked  like  two  Trappists,  newly  absolved 
from  the  vow  of  silence! 

"Think  of  the  Mosque  first  as  the  most  perfect 
thing  left  of  the  Cordova  of  the  Caliphs,  the  city  of 
Abd-er-Rahman,  whom  you  tell  me  you  saw  cross 
the  old  bridge  the  night  you  arrived.  I  have  not 
been  so  fortunate,  though  I  have  had  a  sense  of  him 
more  than  once  sitting  here  in  his  court.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  Mosque,  the  story  of  Moorish  Cordova 
would  be  to  me  as  the  Thousand  and  Second  Story 
of  Scheherezade.  Even  so,  I  can  hardly  believe  it. 
This,  a  city  of  a  million  inhabitants  —  think  of  it ! 
Those  silent,  God-forsaken  streets  full  of  people, 
the  place  fairly  humming  with  business.  Thou- 
sands of  looms  weaving  stuffs,  tissues,  carpets. 
You  know  what  Cordova  leather  was  ?  It  has  never 
been  equalled.  As  to  their  blacksmiths,  their  sil- 
ver and  goldsmiths,  there  are  none  like  them  in  the 
world  to-day  that  I  know." 

Patsy  took  a  brown  paper  parcel  from  his  pocket. 
"Here  are  some  rather  nice  bits  I  have  picked  up." 
He  showed  a  close  silver  chain,  supple  as  a  serpent, 
and  a  fascinating  pair  of  gold  filigree  earrings 
studded  with  small  emeralds. 

"  You're  in  luck.  These  look  like  real  old  Cordova 


(J 
H 
< 


O" 

CT; 

o 


CORDOVA  189 

work.  The  jeweller's  art  is  the  hardest  to  kill 
of  all,  except  the  cook's.  They  make  nice  jewelry 
here  still;  the  pastry  and  the  orange  flower  sweet- 
meats of  Cordova  are  the  best  I  have  eaten  in  Spain. 
Of  all  the  arts  of  Cordova,  the  cook's  and  the  jew- 
eller's alone  survive!  Man  is  still  greedy;  woman 
—  may  I  say  it  ?  —  still  vain." 

"But  wasn't  the  University  the  great  thing  after 
all?"  said  Patsy. 

"Right!  You  can't  say  it  too  often  or  too  loud. 
When  you  hear  the  Jews  abused,  speak  up,  tell  the 
old  story  over  again.  In  the  Dark  Ages,  when 
in  the  rest  of  Europe,  Greece  and  Rome  were  forgot- 
ten, asleep,  seemingly  dead,  the  spirit  of  Athens  and 
of  Rome  was  alive  here  in  Cordova.  Art,  phi- 
losophy, science, —  our  great  inheritance  from  the 
older  civilizations  —  were  held  in  trust  for  you  and 
me  right  here  by  the  Jews  and  Arabs  of  Cordova." 

"That  won't  be  forgotten  while  Dante  is  read." 
Patsy  quoted  a  line  from  the  Inferno : 

"  Averrois  che  il  gran  commento  feo." 

"  No,  six  words  from  Dante  give  a  man  a  patent 
of  nobility  in  the  Republic  of  Letters  that  outlives 
any  title  an  emperor  confers.  Well,  that  Averroes, 
that  same  Hebrew  Jew  whom  Dante  met  along 
with  those  other  Cordovans,  Seneca  and  Lucan,  in 
the  place  of  the  sighing,  unbaptized  spirits,  lived 


190      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

and  wrote  his  great  Commentary  on  Aristotle  here 
in  Cordova.  He  probably  walked  through  this 
court  every  day,  he  washed  perhaps  in  that  foun- 
tain; ate  oranges,  may  be,  from  those  trees  —  how 
should  I  know  the  life  of  an  orange  ?  " 

*  Those  two  men,"  said  J.  to  me,  "would  rather 
talk  about  a  thing  any  day  than  see  it."  So  we  left 
Patsy  and  the  Argentine  reconstructing  old  Cor- 
dova, and  went  to  look  at  the  Mosque. 

Inside  we  soon  lost  ourselves  in  a  forest  of  col- 
umns, with  long  aisles  running  in  every  direction. 
Every  path  we  chose  led  to  beauty.  The  columns 
are  of  many  different  marbles,  porphyry,  jasper, 
Africano,  alabaster,  verde  antique;  of  all  styles, 
and  many  periods.  We  found  some  from  the  old 
Roman  temple  of  Janus;  some  with  smooth  polished 
shafts;  some  twisted,  with  Roman,  Arab,  Byzan- 
tine or  Visigothic  capitals.  The  mosque  has  been 
compared  to  the  bed  of  Procrustes,  —  if  the  col- 
umn was  too  short,  it  was  lengthened  by  adding  a 
base;  if  too  long,  it  was  sunk  into  the  ground. 
Whatever  the  columns  might  have  been  originally, 
they  now  are  all  of  the  same  height,  and  serve  to 
hold  up  the  beautiful  double  arches  that  support 
the  roof. 

We  found  our  way  to  the  Mihrab,  a  wonderful 
little  octagonal  chapel.  The  roof  is  a  shell  hol- 
lowed from  a  single  block  of  marble,  the  walls  are 


CORDOVA  191 

of  marble  finely  carved.  A  deep  groove  is  worn  in 
the  pavement  by  the  knees  of  the  pilgrims  who 
made  the  tour  of  the  Mihrab  seven  times,  for  in 
those  days  a  pilgrimage  to  Cordova  was  as  good  as 
one  to  Mecca. 

"  Los  Moros  que  te  labraron 
capilla  del  Zancarron 
merecian  ser  Cristianos." 

"  That  means  the  Moors  that  made  you,  chapel  of 
the  bare  bone,  deserved  to  be  Christians,"  said 
Patsy,  coming  up  behind  us.  "  Bare  bone,  because 
one  of  Mohammed's  shin-bones  is  supposed  to 
have  been  worshipped  here." 

"Si  hoy  mismo  resucitaran 
aqui  en  Cordoba  los  moros 
cada  cual  se  iba  a  su  casa." 

the  Argentino  capped  the  copla.  "  That  means 
if  to-day  the  Moors  here  in  Cordova  rose  from  the 
dead,  each  could  go  to  his  own  house,  —  because 
the  houses  are  so  little  changed,  I  suppose,  and 
because  their  descendants  have  kept  the  keys." 

As  if  in  answer  to  the  challenge,  there  came 
slowly  towards  us,  down  a  narrow  aisle  of  flanking 
columns,  two  tall  Moors,  dressed  all  in  white. 
They  had  left  their  shoes  at  the  door  of  the  Mosque; 
each  carried  a  prayer  rug.  They  entered  the  small, 


192      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

seven-sided  chapel  that  leads  to  the  holy  of  holies, 
and  placing  their  rugs  upon  the  ground  stood  under 
the  pineapple  dome  with  bowed  heads.  There  we 
left  them  on  the  threshold  of  the  Mihrab,  in  the 
Mosque  of  their  fathers. 

"  Haven't  we  seen  the  impossible  thing  ?  "  cried 
Patsy.  We  were  outside  the  church  in  the  hot 
sunshine,  having  left  those  grave  Moors  undis- 
turbed in  the  shadowy  mosque. 

We  had  seen  the  impossible  thing,  the  only  thing 
worth  seeing,  as  the  only  thing  worth  doing.  Since 
the  Conquest  of  Granada,  it  is  as  difficult  to  see  a 
Moor  in  Spain  as  to  meet  an  Iroquois  in  Broadway, 
but,  —  we  had  not  dreamed  them !  They  were 
real  Moors  in  the  suite  of  the  envoys  of  the  Sultan 
of  Morocco  at  the  Algeciras  Conference,  who  had 
taken  advantage  of  a  few  days  recess,  and  come  up 
to  see  Cordova. 

As  we  stood  absorbed  in  thinking  of  those  Moors, 
whose  red  morocco  slippers  lay  before  us  on  the 
steps,  we  did  not  notice  what  was  happening  just 
behind  us. 

"  Off  with  your  hats,  heretic  Jews !  "  The  words 
were  hissed  in  Patsy's  ear,  —  he  stood  nearest  the 
church  door;  his  hat  was  knocked  off  his  head. 
"  Take  that,  and  that,  and  that!  "  He  was  hit  in 
the  face  three  times  with  a  fan  by  a  small  lady  in 
black  satin. 


CORDOVA  193 

The  Argentine  drew  us  quickly  aside,  as  a  pro- 
cession of  priests  came  out  of  the  door.  One 
carried  something  that  was  hidden  by  the  rich 
vestment  hunched  over  his  shoulders  and  covering 
his  hands. 

"  They  are  taking  the  sacrament  to  some  sick 
person,"  the  Argentine  explained.  At  that  mo- 
ment Don  Jaime,  who  had  come  up  without  our 
seeing  him,  tried  to  pour  oil  upon  the  troubled 
waters. 

"  These  are  strangers,  Senora,  they  did  not  know 
that  his  divine  majesty  was  about  to  pass.'* 

The  little  old  lady  was  nothing  appeased;  she 
gave  us  one  last  furious  look,  and  muttering  "Ac- 
cursed heretic  Jews!"  followed  the  priests  with  the 
sacrament. 

"That's  the  same  spirit  that  more  than  once  has 
drenched  this  city  in  the  blood  of  its  best  people," 
said  the  Argentine.  "In  Abd-er-Rahman's  time 
the  church  of  St.  Vicente  that  stood  here,  on  the 
site  of  the  Temple  of  Janus,  was  divided  between 
Christians  and  Musselmans.  They  worshipped 
under  the  same  roof  till  Abd-er-Rahman  bought  the 
Christians  out  and  built  this  Mosque.  The  Chris- 
tian priests  left  the  church  peaceably,  in  procession, 
carrying  the  pictures  and  relics  of  the  saints. 
Afterwards  the  Mohammedan  Marabouts  and  the 
Christian  fanatics  stirred  up  all  the  strife;  they  are 


194       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

equally  responsible  for  the  throat  slitting,  burning, 
and  torturing;  there's  not  a  pin  to  choose  between 
them.  That  old  lady  would  send  us  to  the  stake 
to-day  if  she  could.  Priest  and  woman,  the  old 
allies!  Do  you  know,  Senor,  that  the  future  of 
Spain  depends  upon  the  education  you  give  your 
women."  His  eyes  flashed  as  he  asked  Jaime  the 
question.  The  Don  looked  back  at  him  with 
withering  scorn. 

"The  ladies  of  Spain  receive  the  education  best 
suited  to  them,"  he  said  gravely. 

"They  know  how  to  use  their  fans,"  said  Patsy; 
his  nose  had  begun  to  bleed.  "That  I  should  be 
assaulted  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  by  a  little  old 
lady  with  a  fan, —  wonderful !  I  will  say  she's  the 
livest  thing  I've  seen  in  Cordova." 

"You  saw  who  she  was?"  said  J.  "The 
lady  with  the  silver  curls  who  didn't  want  to  pay 
duty  on  the  ham,  and  who  gives  bread  to  the  beg- 
gars of  Cordova  every  Saturday." 


GATE  OF  JUSTICE,  ALHAMBRA. 


VIII 
GRANADA 

Quiero  vivir  en  Granada  I  like  to  live  in  Granada 

porque  me  gusta  el  oir  Because  it  pleases  me  to  hear 

la  campana  de  la  Vela  The  bell  of  the  Vela 

quando  me  voy  a  dormir.  When  I  am  going  to  sleep. 

WHO'S  there?" 
"People  of  peace." 

Encarnacion  opened  the  door  of  the  bell  tower 
just  a  crack.  Though  the  sun  had  not  set,  it  was 
already  dark  inside  the  watch-tower  of  the  Al  ham- 
bra.  The  walls  are  six  feet  thick;  the  windows, 
narrow  slits  on  the  winding  stair,  let  in  very  little 
light.  Encarnacion  carried  a  classic  brass  lamp 
for  olive  oil.  She  shaded  the  flame  from  her  eyes 
with  a  long,  hairy  hand,  and  the  light  shining 
through  showed  how  thin  it  was.  Maria,  the 
younger  sister,  as  grim  looking,  though  more  timid 
in  her  bearing,  stood  behind,  peering  over  Encarna- 
cion's  shoulder. 

"It  is  the  young  caballero  and  his  friends,"  she 


196       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

whispered.  Encarnacion  threw  the  door  wide 
open,  the  two  sisters  smiled  hospitably  upon  us  like 
a  pair  of  kind  ogresses. 

"But  come  in." 

"Come  in." 

They  echoed  each  other  as  if  they  were  singing 
a  perpetual  duet. 

"  They  are  welcome." 

"Welcome." 

"  Will  they  be  pleased  to  enter  ?  " 

"To  enter!" 

We  followed  the  sisters  to  a  square  room  with 
enormously  thick  walls.  A  range  was  built  into 
one  corner,  a  charcoal  fire  smouldered  under  a  tiny 
grate,  where  something  that  smelt  very  good  bub- 
bled in  an  earthenware  pot.  Four  cages  of  cana- 
ries hung  against  the  wall.  A  brindled  cat  stole 
in  behind  us,  licked  its  whiskers,  fixed  fierce, 
unwinking  eyes  on  the  birds.  Maria  threatened 
him  with  her  finger. 

"Bad  little  cat !  Who  killed  the  young  robin  in  the 
myrtle  hedge  ?  And  now  you  make  eyes  at  these  ? 
He  knows  too  much  to  touch  them;  he  looks  and 
looks  at  them,  and  then  goes  out  and  chases  the 
wild  birds." 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  round  work- 
table  covered  with  sewing.  A  jacket,  half  cut  out 
of  red  cotton,  lay  near  a  pair  of  shears.  From  an 


COURT   OF   LIONS,   THE   ALHAMBRA. 


GARDEN   OF   THE   GEXERALIFE,   GRANADA. 


GRANADA  197 

opening  in  the  dark,  vaulted  ceiling  over  the  work- 
table,  dangled  a  long  knotted  cord. 

"That  is  the  rope  of  the  campana  de  la  Vela!" 
said  Encarnacion. 

"Is  it  true  that  it  is  you  who  ring  the  bell  of  the 
Vela?" 

;<Yes,  once  every  half  hour,  from  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening  till  four  in  the  morning,  we  ring  the 
bell  in  the  watch-tower." 

"You  sit  up  all  night  to  do  it?  Isn't  it  dread- 
fully cold?" 

"Yes,  it  is  often  very  cold.  In  winter  we  have  a 
fire."  Encarnacion  drew  aside  the  chintz  curtains 
that  hid  the  lower  part  of  the  table,  and  showed  a 
copper  brazier  covered  with  a  wire  netting  that 
stood  underneath. 

"  We  kindle  the  charcoal,  put  our  feet  close  to  the 
brazier  on  this  wooden  shelf,  and  wrap  ourselves  up 
in  heavy  shawls  and  hoods.  We  manage  very  well, 
we  are  so  used  to  it." 

"What  do  you  do  with  yourselves  through  the 
long  winter  nights  ?  How  do  you  pass  the  time  ?" 

"There  is  always  plenty  of  work;  we  take  in 
sewing.  Sometimes  one  of  us  reads  aloud  to  the 
other." 

"Do  you  two  live  here  quite  alone  ?" 

"Sometimes  our  brother  is  with  us,  not  always," 
sighed  Encarnacion.  "I  have  been  the  portress 


198      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

of  the  Torre  de  la  Vela  since  the  night  the  tower 
was  struck  by  lightning  and  our  father  and  mother, 
now  in  glory,  were  killed." 

"Now  in  glory  were  killed!"  echoed  Maria. 

"  What  a  terrible  thing !     When  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  Long  and  long  ago, —  the  year  Maria  made  her 
first  communion.  We  were  waked  by  a  great 
crash.  The  tower  shook,  the  bell  rang  as  never 
before,  there  was  a  thick  smoke.  It  was  easy  for 
us  to  escape,  we  slept  below;  our  brother  slept 
above,  near  our  parents.  He  saved  his  life  by  clap- 
ping a  towel  over  his  mouth,  and  creeping  down- 
stairs on  his  hands  and  knees." 

"On  his  knees,"  Maria  crossed  herself.  "Vir- 
gin mine!  May  the  Lord  receive  them  into  Para- 
dise in  their  shoes!" 

"The  bell  gives  the  signal  for  opening  the 
sluices,"  Encarnacion  went  on;  "it  regulates  the  ir- 
rigation of  the  vega.  Each  piece  of  land  has  its 
hour  for  letting  on  the  water.  On  still  nights  you 
can  hear  the  bell  thirty  miles  away." 

High  up  in  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains  over 
Granada,  the  Darrow,  a  mountain  torrent  flow- 
ing down  from  the  eternal  snows  on  the  summits, 
is  caught,  tamed,  and  led  off  into  small  channels 
that  spread,  like  the  veins  of  a  man's  body,  all 
over  the  vega.  Moors'  work  this;  perhaps  the 
greatest  part  of  their  legacy  to  Spain,  for  water 


WINDOW,  TOWER  OF  CAPTIVE,  AUIAMBRA. 


GRANADA  199 

is  wealth.  Thanks  to  the  Moors,  the  vega  of 
Granada  is  the  garden  of  the  Peninsula;  the  hemp 
grown  here  is  the  finest,  the  olives  and  grapes  are 
the  best.  The  land  bears  three  crops  a  year  in 
succession, —  wheat,  beans  and  corn.  Part  of  it  is 
now  given  over  to  the  new  sugar  beet  industry ;  the 
beets  grown  here  are  enormous.  The  soil  is  light 
and  clean;  you  will  not  find  a  stone  in  a  whole  field. 
The  regulation  of  the  complicated  system  of  irriga- 
tion, the  life  blood  of  Granada,  is  in  the  hands  of 
Encarnacion  and  Maria.  To  live  in  a  tower,  of  all 
others  in  a  tower  of  the  Alhambra,  and  spend  your 
life  helping  to  make  Granada  green  and  beautiful, 
seems  a  pleasant  existence,  even  if  it  be  a  lonely  one. 
To  wake  when  others  sleep,  and  sleep  when  all  the 
world's  awake,  always  seems  a  hard  fate. 

"Your  birds  must  be  a  great  company  to  you," 
I  said  to  Maria. 

"  Claro.  We  raise  them  ourselves.  Would  you 
like  to  see  the  little  ones  ?  We  keep  them  in  our 
bedroom  where  it  is  warmer." 

"Do  me  the  favor,"  Encarnacion  relighted  the 
lamp,  and  showed  the  way  up  the  heavy  stone 
stairway. 

The  neat  upper  room  where  the  sisters  slept  had 
three  beds.  In  spite  of  the  thick  whitewash  on  the 
walls,  we  could  still  make  out  the  graceful  lines  of 
the  old  Moorish  arches  and  windows.  A  palm 


200      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

branch,  a  crucifix,  and  a  chromo  of  the  Madonna  of 
Lourdes  appearing  to  Bernadette,  hung  between 
the  beds.  At  one  end  of  the  room  was  a  long  table 
with  the  breeding  cages  of  the  canaries,  whose  loves 
and  nurseries  the  sisters  of  the  tower  guard  so 
tenderly. 

"See  this  little  one;"  Maria  put  her  face  close  to 
the  cage  and  made  a  little  singing  sound.  "He's 
getting  strong  now;  he  was  weakly  at  first,  and  I 
thought  we  should  lose  him.  It  would  be  a  pity; 
his  father  is  our  best  singer."  The  canaries,  all  in 
a  flutter  at  being  waked  up,  chattered  and  scolded 
at  her. 

"Maria  will  take  them  up  to  see  the  view,"  said 
Encarnacion;  "if  they  will  excuse  me,  I  will  go 
down  in  case  some  one  else  should  call."  I  am 
afraid  Encarnacion  knew  we  liked  Maria  best. 

Down  in  the  town  of  Granada  the  bells  were 
ringing  like  mad,  the  nightingales  were  singing  in 
the  Duke  of  Wellington's  elms,  that  shade  the  long, 
steep  road  leading  from  the  town  to  the  red  city  of 
the  Alhambra,  perched  high  above  it.  At  the  foot 
of  the  tower  was  a  carpet  of  wild  flowers,  ane- 
mones, wild  callas,  and  many  other  blossoms  I 
did  not  know. 

"Is  the  snow  always  there?"  J.  asked,  pointing 
to  the  Sierra  Nevada. 

"I    was    born    in   the    tower,"    said    Maria; 


GRANADA  201 

"I  have  lived  here  all  my  life,  and  I  have 
never  seen  those  mountains  without  snow.  That 
is  the  campana  de  la  Vela"  she  pointed  to  a 
huge  bronze  bell  hanging  in  the  turret.  "You 
should  see  the  tower  on  the  day  after  New  Year. 
How  many  girls  come  up  to  see  the  view  that  day ! 
They  believe,  foolish  ones,  that  she  who  rings  the 
bell  on  the  second  of  January  will  get  a  husband 
before  the  year  is  over."  Maria  smiled,  with  grim 
close-shut  lips.  Had  she  ever  been  weak  enough 
to  try  the  charm  ?  For  Encarnacion  it  was  un- 
thinkable. 

"When  Don  Alfonzo  was  here  we  asked  him  to 
ring  the  bell.  Though  he  laughed  very  much,  he 
would  not.  From  what  we  hear,  he  will  be  mar- 
ried before  New  Year  all  the  same." 

In  the  Torre  de  la  Vela  they  know  all  that  is 
going  on.  It  was  growing  dark;  the  stars  were 
pricking  through  the  blue;  down  in  the  city  of 
Granada  the  lights  seemed  to  reflect  them. 

"Is  that  the  Gypsy  quarter  ?"  I  asked  Maria.  I 
could  just  make  out  doors  like  the  one  leading  to 
Aladdin's  cave,  in  the  face  of  a  hillside  far  below. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  Albaicin.  You  have  been 
there?" 

"Not  yet;  to-morrow  we  shall  go  to  see  some 
Gypsy  dancing." 

Maria  shrugged  scornful  shoulders.     "Take  care 


202       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

they  don't  pick  your  pockets.  The  Gitanos  are 
great  thieves ;  they  are  taught  to  steal  from  the  time 
they  are  babies.  You  may  like  what  you  will  see. 
When  there  are  no  ladies,"  she  held  up  her  hands 
in  horror,  "their  dances  are  not  to  be  imagined  or 
described.  Do  not  let  him  go  by  himself."  She 
looked  at  Patsy,  leaning  over  the  parapet  absorbed 
in  the  view.  "They  are  deceitful  hussies!  The 
dances  they  dance  when  men  go  alone  are  very 
different  from  what  you  will  see! " 

"That  would  be  a  hot  walk  without  the  shade  of 
those  trees,"  said  Patsy.  "Pleasant  that  we  should 
remember  the  Iron  Duke  in  Spain  most  of  all  for 
his  elms.  Who  loves  his  fellow  men,  plants  trees. 
The  English  are  civilized,  confound  'em!  The 
longer  you're  in  Europe,  the  more  you  have  to  think 
of  England  as  the  Great  Friend." 

There  was  no  excuse  to  linger  longer.  The 
sisters  had  invited  us  to  sup,  and  we  had  declined. 

"Go  you  with  God,"  said  Encarnacion,  she 
came  with  us  to  the  door.  "To-night  when  you 
hear  the  campana  de  la  Vela,  think  of  Maria  and 
me  in  the  tower." 

"In  the  tower,"  echoed  Maria  over  her  shoulder. 

The  next  day  we  drove  to  the  Albaicin,  by  the 
road  of  the  Sacred  Mountain.  The  base  of  the 
mountain  is  honeycombed  with  gypsy  cave  dwel- 
lings. The  caves  are  built,  or  rather  excavated, 


GRANADA  203 

at  four  different  levels,  and  entered  from  rough 
terraces.  The  gypsy  settlement  seemed  a  sort  of 
primitive  community,  like  those  from  which  Tan- 
giers  and  Naples  must  have  developed  into  the 
terraced  cities  they  are  to-day.  Higher  up  the 
mountains  are  the  sacred  caves  where  hermits  once 
lived.  On  the  summit  is  a  large  church  and  a  relig- 
ious house. 

"That  old  gentleman  Don  Jaime  gave  me 
the  letter  to,"  said  Patsy,  "  told  me  that  the  priests 
who  live  up  there  are  no  end  of  swells.  They  can't 
'get  in'  on  anything  but  merit,  not  even  royal  pat- 
ronage. They  must  show  that  they  have  the  goods ; 
must  pass  a  stiff  examination.  Each  one  has  his 
separate  establishment,  with  his  own  house  and 
garden  and  servants,  and  drawrs  a  pension  of  from 
three  to  five  thousand  pesetas  a  year.  Most  of 
them  are  great  *  orators ' ;  they  are  sent  for  from  all 
over  Spain  to  preach,  and  jolly  well  paid  for  it. 
They  always  get  twenty-five  dollars  a  sermon,  and 
have  been  known  to  get  forty!  Spain's  the  place 
for  priests ;  when  I  take  orders  I  shall  come  here  to 
live!" 

The  gypsy  King  met  us  at  the  entrance  of  his 
cave;  a  swart  hulk  of  a  man,  with  the  voice  of  a  bull 
and  bold  piercing  eyes.  Behind  him  stood  his  son, 
looking  just  as  the  King  must  have  looked  at 
twenty.  The  boy  had  a  mop  of  coarse  black  hair 


204      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

—  the  King's  was  iron  gray  —  low  forehead, 
strong  white  teeth,  that  curious  veiled  eye  that  later 
in  life  grows  fierce  and  bright;  body,  hands,  feet, 
exquisitely  turned,  color  a  rich  olive,  the  look  of 
race  that  is  better  than  beauty,  and  the  glow  of 
youth  that  is  best  of  all.  It  was  small  wonder  the 
two  ragged  girls  plaiting  straw  in  the  dust  of  the 
hot  yellow  road  looked  at  him  with  longing  eyes. 

The  door  of  the  cave,  fitted  flat  against  the  hill- 
side, seemed  to  lead  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 
The  cave,  literally  scooped  out  of  the  mountain, 
was  divided  into  four  decent  whitewashed  rooms, 
comfortable  and  clean  enough.  We  went  directly 
from  the  road  into  the  largest;  it  was  of  fair  size, 
with  rough  beams  running  across  the  ceiling  and 
with  a  tiled  floor.  We  were  expected;  great  prep- 
arations had  been  made  for  our  visit.  A  row  of 
rush-bottomed  chairs  stood  against  the  wall.  Beau- 
tifully polished  copper  saucepans  of  many  sizes 
were  placed  on  a  shelf,  with  some  wild  peonies  stuck 
in  a  beer  bottle.  I  somehow  fancied  that  the  sauce- 
pans would  be  for  sale  if  we  took  a  fancy  to  them. 
A  small  inner  room,  perfectly  dark,  led  from  the 
living  room;  it  had  a  bed  with  a  white  crocheted 
quilt.  On  the  left  of  the  entrance  was  a  cave  room 
that  served  as  a  kitchen;  on  the  right,  a  sort  of 
property  room, —  where  half  a  dozen  women  and 
girls  with  powdered  faces  and  fresh  flowers  in  their 


GRANADA  205 

hair  were  waiting.     The  eldest,  a  fierce  old  woman 
with  a  beak  like  a  parrot's,  dusted  a  chair  for 


me. 

« 


This  is  my  house,"  she  said.  Pointing  to  the 
King,  "He  is  my  son,  these  are  all  my  family." 
She  seemed  surprised  at  my  asking  if  there  was 
any  other  cave  as  good  as  hers. 

"No,"  she  said,  "this  is  the  best;  cool  in  summer, 
warm  in  winter,  and  clean,  as  you  can  see." 

The  musicians,  the  King's  son  and  another 
youth  with  oiled  hair  and  clean  new  jackets,  took 
their  places,  twanged  their  guitars  and  the  fiesta 
flamanca  began.  First  a  dance  by  two  women, 
while  the  others  sat  by,  clapping  their  hands,  tap- 
ping with  their  feet,  keeping  time  to  the  music. 

"More  power!"  cried  the  King. 

"Dale,  dale,"  droned  the  chorus.  The  guitars 
twanged  louder,  the  hand-clapping  redoubled. 
Little  by  little  the  dancers  woke  up.  The  youngest 
woman  was  sixty,  the  oldest  girl  ten.  This  was  a 
little  disappointing  to  Patsy,  though  they  all  did 
their  best  and  gave  us  good  measure.  The  children 
were  evidently  students  being  carefully  trained; 
the  old  women  were  all  good  artists,  and  intent  on 
preserving  and  handing  down  the  traditions  of  their 
art, —  but  the  thing  was  somehow  curiously  aca- 
demic! The  old  mother  took  a  tambourine  from 
the  wall  and  shook  out  the  music  from  it  in  fine 


206      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

style.  "Tire  yourselves!"  she  cried.  After  the 
second  dance,  she  handed  a  tray  with  glasses  of 
wine.  Each  succeeding  dance  was  better  than  the 
last.  The  best  of  all  was  the  one  the  old  woman 
gave  us  at  the  end.  Only  once  was  there  an  ap- 
proach to  what  Maria  had  hinted  at.  A  woman 
with  a  bad  face  gave  us  a  Jaleo,  a  gross,  wriggling 
dance  with  unpleasant  contortions  of  the  body, 
wonderful  as  an  exhibition  of  skill  and  strength, 
but  not  quite  decent,  and  lacking  the  grace,  the 
beauty,  and  the  dignity  of  the  old  woman's  per- 
formance. 

"Haven't  we  had  enough?"  said  Patsy,  at  the 
end  of  half  an  hour.  'You  saw  those  men  tip 
the  wink  to  our  coachman  as  we  passed  ?  The 
whole  village  is  on  its  good  behavior.  We  are  not 
to  be  shocked,  annoyed,  or  begged  from;  it's  all 
put  down  in  the  bill  we  must  pay  the  ruffian  King 
for  protecting  us  from  his  tribe,  preventing  us  from 
seeing  the  real  thing  and  giving  us  this  fake 
show." 

Patsy  was  all  wrong  —  because  he  was  disap- 
pointed in  the  age  of  the  performers !  You  can  see 
a  young  and  handsome  Spanish  dancing  girl  in  any 
music  hall  in  Madrid.  The  gypsy  cave  in  the 
mountainside,  where  the  dancers  of  the  past  and  the 
dancers  of  the  future  meet,  was  worth  a  trip  to 
Granada ! 


:r 
— • 

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X 


D 

- 


GRANADA  207 

Of  course  we  spent  most  of  our  time  in  Granada 
at  the  Alhambra.  Some  things  must  be  experi- 
enced to  be  understood.  Falling  in  love  is  one, 
Niagara  Falls  another,  going  down  a  toboggan 
slide  a  third,  the  Alhambra  a  fourth.  The  old 
simile  of  the  oyster  came  to  mind  as  freshly  as  if 
we  had  invented  it, — just  as  every  pair  of  young 
lovers  imagine  they  have  invented  love !  The  heavy 
walls  are  the  outside  of  the  oyster;  the  fairy  courts 
and  halls  painted  with  the  tints  of  rainbow,  dawn, 
sea,  and  moonlight  are  the  inside  of  the  shell.  The 
pearl  ?  In  the  room  of  the  Two  Sisters  the  winter 
apartment  of  the  sultana,  I  had  a  vision  of  Irving's 
Linderaxa.  I  could  not  remember  how  he  de- 
scribed his  pearl  of  the  harem,  but  the  face  I  saw 
or  dreamed  of  as  I  sat  in  that  fairy  palace  was  the 
fairest  woman's  face  I  ever  saw.  Her  skin  was 
like  warm  ivory,  her  hair  an  aureole  of  flame,  her 
eyes,  gray  stars,  her  smile,  the  smile  of  the  im- 
perishable child. 

I  asked  Patsy  if  he  was  disappointed  in  the  Al- 
hambra. 

;<Yes,"  he  said,  "disappointed  the  right  way. 
After  the  Acropolis,  it  is  the  best  thing  I  ever  saw. 
The  lovely  color,  the  movement  of  it  all !  Will  you 
tell  me  how  any  people  could  invent  a  written  lan- 
guage as  decorative  as  this?"  We  were  in  one  of 
the  great  halls  looking  at  the  CufEk  inscriptions 


208      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

that  form  one  of  the  most  fascinating  and  character- 
istic of  the  wall  ornamentations. 

"  It  is  all  based  on  Persian  art,  but  it  is  even  more 
joyous,  don't  you  think  ?  You  know  the  Koran 
discourages,  if  it  does  not  forbid,  the  representation 
of  any  living  creature  in  art.  That  is  like  the 
'Thou  shalt  make  no  graven  image.'  Man  and 
beast  are  practically  ruled  out  of  Arab  art.  Do  you 
miss  them  ?  I  don't.  After  the  gross  use  of  men 
and  animals, —  remember  the  great  bearded  bull- 
men  of  the  Assyrians,  and  the  hawk  and  cat  headed 
gods  of  Egypt, —  this  endless  variation  of  leaf  and 
flower  and  geometric  design  is  refreshing.  Why  it 
is  like  a  vegetarian  diet  to  a  sailor  man  who  has  had 
scurvy  from  living  on  salt  beef." 

The  guardian,  who  had  long  tracked  us,  here 
buttonholed  J.,  and  poured  out  a  flood  of  familiar 
information.  We  listened  mechanically,  as  he 
talked,  until  he  said  something  we  had  not  heard 
twenty  times  before. 

"Last  week  two  Moors  from  the  Algeciras  Con- 
ference were  here.  I  myself  took  them  about. 
They  showed  no  enthusiasm.  In  this  room  the 
older  one  said  to  me,  *  These  are  sentences  from  the 
Koran/  as  if  I  did  not  know  that  before!  In  spite 
of  all  their  pretended  indifference,  I  knew  very  well 
what  those  Moors  were  feeling.  It  is  a  very  deceit- 
ful race;  they  always  hide  their  emotions/*  The 


GRANADA  209 

guardian  spoke  as  scornfully  of  the  Moors  as  Maria 
had  spoken  of  the  gypsies. 

"Do  you  notice  how  they  all  dislike  what  they 
call  deceit  ?  The  Spaniard  is  a  truthful  person,  and 
honest.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  surprising,  but  after 
some  of  the  countries  we  have  traveled  in,  it  comes 
like  a  shock!"  said  Patsy. 

A  long  straight  path  of  gold  sand  between  two 
lines  of  tall,  black  cypresses  leads  to  the  old  Moorish 
garden  of  the  Generalife,  near  the  Alhambra. 
Every  other  tree  is  clipped  square  at  the  top,  the 
alternate  one  towering  to  a  pointed  spire.  There 
is  always  a  sound  of  gliding  waters;  in  the  early 
morning  and  evening,  when  the  birds*  matins  and 
lauds  are  sung,  you  can  hear  the  nightingales  and 
the  merles.  In  the  patio  of  the  cypresses,  under 
the  shade  of  immemorial  trees,  is  a  great  sheet  of 
still  green  water  like  a  vast  chrysophrase,  where 
you  can  study  the  cloud  shadows,  or  your  own 
reflection  —  if  you  are  handsome  —  like  Narcissus, 
or  watch  the  greedy  gudgeon  and  gold  fish  devour 
the  bread  you  throw  them.  We  passed  through  a 
long,  flower-bordered  path  with  a  thicket  of  laurel, 
aloes  and  pomegranate  for  a  background.  A 
hundred  tiny  jets  of  water,  like  white  aigrettes, 
waved  among  the  green,  and  lost  themselves  in  the 
shrubbery.  We  climbed  the  long  Stairway  of  the 
Cascades,  cheered  by  the  babble  of  the  little 


210      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

streams  of  water  that  run  down  the  tops  of  the 
balustrade  on  either  side.  In  the  mirador  at  the 
top  we  rested,  and  looked  down  on  the  wonderful 
garden  with  its  terraces,  cedars,  clipped  myrtle 
hedges,  thousand  and  one  fountains. 

'  The  Bankshires  are  only  beginning  here;  in 
Seville  the  rose  madness  was  at  its  height,"  said 
Patsy.  *  We  have  travelled  with  the  rose;  we 
couldn't  have  managed  better  if  we  had  tried." 

From  the  mirador  you  see  the  Sierras  with  the 
eternal  snow  fields  glistening  on  their  summits. 
"The  Moors  certainly  understood  the  use  of 
water,"  said  J.  "I  have  never  seen  anything  quite 
so  good  as  this  garden  even  in  Italy." 

There  was  music  in  the  air,  the  rushing  sound 
of  water  from  those  melting  snows  cunningly 
led  down  the  mountainside  and  set  here  to 
dance  and  sing,  to  cool  the  heat  and  beguile  the 
leisure  hours  of  long,  hot,  summer  days.  Patsy 
watched  with  fascinated  eyes  a  joyous  saldadore 
of  water  leaping  and  singing  under  the  shade  of 
an  oak. 

"Water  is  to  these  people  of  the  south  what  fire 
is  to  us  northerners,"  he  said.  "They  are  the  two 
living  elements,  and  they  both  dance.  Dancing 
is  the  natural  expression  of  joy  in  life;  it  is  copied 
from  dancing  spray  and  dancing  flame.  David 
was  quite  right  to  dance  before  the  ark.  I  had  a 


RETABLO,   CARVED   IN    HIGH   AND   LOW   RELIEF.     Roldan 


GRANADA  211 

Shaker  nurse  who  danced  with  me  when  I  cried;  I 
suppose  that  is  why  I'm  so  fond  of  it." 

Granada  cathedral  is  so  hemmed  in  with  trump- 
ery little  buildings  that  it  is  impossible  to  get  an 
impression  of  it  as  a  whole.  The  mushroom 
growth  will  have  to  go.  Each  succeeding  tourist 
wave  sweeping  over  Europe,  as  the  Goths  and 
Vandals  swept  before  them,  sweeps  away  some  such 
trash,  and  uncovers  hidden  gems  of  architecture. 
The  interior  of  the  cathedral,  though  over  ornate, 
has  some  splendid  architectural  effects,  and  is  rich 
in  every  sort  of  treasure  ecclesiastical.  I  remember 
a  curious  white  marble  statue  of  the  Virgin  with  a 
black  marble  cloak,  and  a  very  charming  painted 
wood  group  of  St.  Anne,  St.  Joachim  and  Mary, 
a  good  example  of  one  of  the  arts  you  must  come  to 
Spain  to  see.  Painted  wood  statuary,  wrought 
iron  work,  ecclesiastical  embroidery  and  —  danc- 
ing have  all  been  carried  farther  in  Spain  than 
anywhere  else  in  Europe.  Montafies,  Roldan,  and 
Alonzo  Cano,  succeeded  in  making  their  painted 
wood  statues  and  bas-reliefs  as  dignified  as  if  they 
had  worked  in  bronze  or  marble.  Just  as  Luca 
della  Robbia  did  with  terra  cotta.  There  is  a  poly- 
chrome carved  retablo  of  the  Entombment  in 
Seville,  by  Roldan,  that  is  a  true  masterpiece 
of  sculpture.  The  outer  figures  are  modelled 
in  such  high  relief  they  seem  almost  free;  those 


SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

in  the  middle  distance  are  in  ordinary  high 
relief,  the  more  distant  in  low,  almost  flat 
relief;  the  background  is  a  painted  wood  panel. 
This  does  not  sound  encouraging,  but  the  material 
a  masterpiece  is  made  of  is  of  little  consequence; 
it  may  be  wood,  marble,  iron,  gold  or  woven 
wool, — if  a  master  uses  it,  a  masterpiece  is  pro- 
duced. 

As  I  was  sketching  the  wonderful  wrought  iron 
screen  that  shuts  off  the  tombs  from  the  main  part 
of  the  chapel  royal,  I  heard  two  women's  voices: 
"You  have  made  a  mistake,  I  think.  The  tombs 
of  Ferdinand  and  Isabel  are  on  the  right,"  said  an 
alert,  gray-haired  woman. 

"Thank  you;  I  know,"  said  a  clear  young  voice. 
The  last  speaker,  caught  red  handed  in  the  very 
act  of  laying  flowers  on  a  tomb,  was  annoyed. 
She  saw  that  I,  too,  looked  with  disfavor  on  the 
alert  gray-haired  lady  with  the  guidebook,  and  by 
mutual  consent  we  made  acquaintance  beside  the 
tomb  of  Juana  la  Loca,  the  daughter  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabel,  and  her  husband,  Philippe  le  Bel. 

"Poor  things!"  said  the  girl  who  had  laid  the 
flowers  between  the  two  marble  figures  lying  side 
by  side. 

"  Poor  things !  Tell  me  their  story  if  you  remem- 
ber it." 

"They  were  married  when  Juana  was  seventeen, 


GRANADA  213 

and  Philippe  eighteen.  She  was  very  pretty,  but 
he  was  the  handsomest  man  in  Europe.  They  only 
had  each  other  ten  years;  even  then  they  were  not 
allowed  much  peace!  At  first  they  lived  at  his 
court  in  Brussels  where  they  were  very  happy;  life 
was  not  quite  so  strict  and  straight  laced  as  at  the 
Spanish  Court.  Isabel  was  a  great  queen,  but  I 
don't  think  she  could  have  been  a  nice  mother.  She 
sent  a  priest  to  be  Juana's  confessor,  a  grim  Spanish 
bigot.  Phillippe  laughed  at  him  so  much  that 
Juana  refused  to  confess  to  him.  That  was  the 
beginning  of  all  their  troubles!  The  priest  came 
back  to  Spain  and  told  tales,  set  her  mother  against 
Juana.  When  she  came  home,  to  be  with  her 
mother  when  her  child  was  born,  Isabel  tried  to 
prevent  her  returning  to  her  husband, —  locked 
her  up.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ? " 

She  spoke  as  if  it  was  happening  now;  her  face 
was  flushed;  she  clinched  and  unclinched  her 
hand. 

"But  they  couldn't  keep  Juana;  she  was  like  a 
raging  lioness;  they  had  to  let  her  go  back  to  her 
husband.  Then  Isabel  spread  the  report  that  Ju- 
ana was  mad, — and  made  arrangements  in  her  will 
to  prevent  her  ever  reigning.  Juana  wouldn't 
have  cared  about  that;  all  she  wanted  was  to  be  let 
alone,  to  have  a  little  peace  and  happiness  in  her 
life.  After  Isabel's  death,  those  two  poor  things 


214      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

made  their  great  mistake, —  they  came  back  to 
Spain.  Somebody  who  was  jealous  of  their  happi- 
ness poisoned  Philippe.  Nobody  knows  whether 
Juana's  father  Ferdinand  was  responsible  for  the 
murder  or  the  Inquisition.  I  think  it  was  the 
Inquisition;  those  cruel  inquisitors  ,did  not  want 
anybody  to  be  happy,  and  Philippe  was  too  liberal, 
too  open-minded  to  suit  that  terrible  Cardinal 
Jimenez.  Juana  and  Philippe  were  at  Burgos  at 
the  time.  When  it  was  all  over,  the  friends  who 
were  with  her  at  the  deathbed  told  Juana  that  her 
husband  was  dead. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  dead,  asleep!"  You  see, 
then,  she  really  did  go  mad.  They  had  Philippe 
embalmed  and  put  in  a  leaden  coffin;  from  that 
day  Juana  was  never  separated  from  his  body. 
Wherever  she  went  she  took  it  with  her;  for  twenty 
years  she  travelled  all  over  the  country  with  it.  I 
saw  her  coach,  the  first  that  ever  came  to  Spain,  in 
Madrid.  In  those  days,  when  royalties  travelled, 
they  stopped  at  convents  or  monasteries,  if  there 
was  no  royal  residence  near.  Poor  Juana  was  so 
jealous  she  would  never  go  into  a  convent,  for  fear 
the  nuns  might  look  at  her  beloved!  Philippe  dead 
had  his  pages  and  his  suite  just  as  if  he  had  been 
alive.  Finally,  Juana  was  shut  up  at  Tordesillas. 
There  she  had  the  coffin  placed  in  a  chapel  leading 
from  her  room,  where  she  could  always  see  it. 


CD 
X 

^ 
P 

J 

O 


Q 

5 
- 


GRANADA  215 

Here  is  a  photograph  I  bought  of  Pradilla's  picture 
of  Juana." 

The  picture  shows  the  sad  procession  on  a  wind- 
swept hillside  outside  Burgos  just  before  dawn. 
The  coffin  stands  on  an  iron  bier,  with  two  wax 
candles  at  the  head  and  foot.  A  priest  reads  the 
service  from  his  book.  Juana's  ladies  stand  or  sit 
exhausted  on  the  ground.  A  group  of  pages  and 
gentlemen  in  furred  dresses  stand  near  a  fire  kin- 
dled in  the  open.  Juana,  in  a  long  black  dress, 
stands  beside  the  coffin  looking  down.  "Dead? 
No,  asleep!"  she  seems  to  say. 

"For  forty-seven  years  Juana  watched  beside  the 
body  of  her  husband.  He  died  at  twenty-eight; 
she  lived  to  seventy-four.  Their  son,  Charles  V, 
gave  Juana  as  fine  a  tomb  as  Isabel's.  I  think  she 
deserved  it.  A  great  lover  is  as  rare  as  a  great 
queen.  Come  with  me  and  see  the  vault.  That 
old  battered  coffin  is  Philippe's,  the  very  one  Juana 
carried  about  with  her.  I  touched  it  the  other  day. 
It  made  it  all  seem  so  real ! " 

We  were  standing  by  the  royal  vault,  looking 
down  through  a  grating  at  the  coffins,  when  a  fair 
young  man  with  blue  eyes  strolled  through  the 
chapel  and  joined  us. 

"Haven't  you  been  here  long  enough,  Joan?" 
he  said.  "Let's  get  out  of  this  stuffy  old  church." 

"All  ready,  Philip;  I  was  only  waiting  for  you." 


216       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

She  looked  at  him  with  adoring  eyes,  smiled  kindly 
at  me,  and  went  off  leaning  on  his  arm.  They 
were  as  pretty  a  young  couple  as  you  could  see,  and 
their  names  were  Philip  and  Joan !  It  could  hardly 
have  been  by  chance  that  they  were  here.  I  fan- 
cied that  the  bride  had  contrived  to  include  a  pil- 
grimage to  the  tomb  of  the  true  lover,  Joan  the 
Mad,  in  their  wedding  journey. 

Amor  es  como  el  vino  Love  is  like  wine; 

guardate  a  tiempo  Guarded  with  time 

y  te  sabrd  mds  dulce  It  shall  taste  to 

thee  sweetest 
cuanto  mas  viejo.  When  it  is  oldest. 


IX 

TANGIERS 

WE  sailed  from  Algeciras  for  what  Don  Jaime 
called  our  "  little  crusade  to  Morocco . ' '  The 
Don  could  not  go  with  us;  he  was  called  to  Madrid, 
he  said,  on  important  business.  Patsy,  who  went 
down  to  Algeciras  a  day  or  two  before  us,  had 
something  to  tell  about  the  Conference  then  in  ses- 
sion. The  Moroccan  delegates  had  arrived  at 
night,  bringing  the  ladies  of  their  harems  with  them. 
They  had  landed  between  two  and  three  in  the 
morning,  so  the  few  curious  persons  waiting  on  the 
dock  only  caught  an  unsatisfactory  glimpse  of 
muffled  figures  passing  from  the  vessel  to  the  wait- 
ing carriages.  Private  houses  had  been  prepared 
for  the  Moorish  delegates ;  most  of  the  Europeans, 
and  Mr.  Henry  White,  the  American  delegate, 
stayed  at  the  Hotel  Maria  Cristina. 

At  the  opening  meeting  of  the  Conference  on  the 
sixteenth  of  January,  1906,  the  president,  the  Due 
d'Almodovar,  declared  that  the  reforms  to  be 
introduced  into  Morocco  must  be  based  on  the  triple 


218      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

principle  of  the  sovereignty  of  the  Sultan  the  integ- 
rity of  his  states,  and  the  open  door.  The  poor 
Moroccan  delegates,  who  did  not  want  any  reforms 
at  all  introduced  into  their  country,  were  only 
allowed  to  read  their  little  speech  at  the  second 
session,  and  as  it  was  in  Arabic,  nobody  under- 
stood much  of  it. 

We  had  a  perfect  day  for  our  trip  across  the 
Straits  of  Gibraltar  from  Europe  to  Africa.  It 
took  two  hours  and  a  half,  and  seemed  much  shorter 
than  crossing  the  English  channel.  At  one  point 
we  could  see  at  the  same  time  the  white  houses  of 
Tangiers,  and  the  gray  Moorish  fortifications  of 
Tarifa,  the  southernmost  point  of  Europe.  The 
currents  are  very  strong  between  the  two  coasts. 
A  French  steamer  lay  wrecked  upon  the  rocks  close 
to  Tarifa  Point  light.  The  sea  was  like  a  silver 
shield.  On  the  Spanish  coast  there  were  long 
stretches  of  tawny  sands  among  the  gray  and  purple 
rocks,  with  here  and  there  an  ancient  Saracen 
watch-tower. 

"Trafalgar  Bay  lies  in  that  direction,"  said 
Patsy,  pointing  to  the  northwest.  "  Nelson  must 
have  looked  at  these  yellow  cliffs,  as  he  lay  dying 
on  the  deck  of  the  Victory,  thinking,  perhaps,  of 
the  white  cliffs  of  England." 

The  winds  that  blew  over  Trafalgar  Bay  caught 
the  great  Admiral's  last  command,  "Anchor, 


TANGIERS  219 

Hardy,  anchor,"  and  his  last  request  whispered  to 
his  trusty  Captain,  "Kiss  me,  Hardy!"  If  you 
ever  sail  that  way,  listen  to  the  wind  whistling  in 
the  shrouds.  If  you  have  ears  to  hear  such  things, 
you  may  catch  the  echo  of  that  whisper. 

The  coast  of  Africa,  as  we  approached  it,  was 
not  more  arid  than  the  opposite  shore. 

We  anchored  in  the  bay  far  out  from  Tangiers, 
a  white  town  set  like  a  pearl  on  the  edge  of  an 
emerald  crescent.  Near  the  right  point  of  the 
crescent,  Tangiers  climbs  up  the  hill  from  the  yel- 
low sea  sands  to  the  green  heights  of  the  foreign 
embassies  and  villas;  at  the  extreme  point  stands 
the  lighthouse.  America  cleared  the  Mediterra- 
nean of  Barbary  pirates;  and  the  great  European 
powers  built  the  lighthouse,  as  they  have  built  the 
post-offices,  the  hospital,  and  every  other  modern 
thing  in  Morocco.  While  waiting  for  the  health 
officers,  we  watched  the  fish  darting  through  the 
clear,  beryl-green  water.  Presently  a  lighter  with 
a  load  of  bulls  closely  wedged  together  drew  up 
alongside  the  steamer.  A  rope  was  passed  round 
the  horns  of  two  of  the  bulls,  and  they  were 
hoisted  on  board  in  pairs,  in  what  seemed  a 
cruel  manner.  The  whole  weight  came  on  their 
horns,  their  necks  were  stretched  out,  their  poor, 
frightened  eyes,  blank  with  terror  haunt  me  still. 
They  made  no  noise;  most  of  them  hung  limp; 


220      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

a  few  struggled  and  only  succeeded  in  kicking 
each  other. 

We  and  our  luggage  were  rowed  ashore  in  a 
small  boat.  The  sea  was  alive  with  half  naked 
bronze  men  in  sacking  bournouses,  who  waded 
back  and  forth,  carrying  enormous  loads  of  terra 
cotta  tiles  from  a  lighter  to  the  land.  On  the  pier 
a  splendid  person  in  a  long  blue  garbardine,  white 
turban,  and  yellow  slippers,  met  us  with  a  card  and 
a  bouquet  of  flowers. 

"My  name  is  Ali,"  he  said;  "  I  am  your 
friend."  He  laid  his  hand  to  his  lips,  then  to  his 
forehead  with  the  grave  and  lovely  salutation  of  the 
East. 

Ali  led  us  before  three  magnificent,  white- 
robed  Moors,  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  floor  of 
the  custom-house,  smoking  long  chibouks.  These 
officials  paid  no  attention  to  us;  indeed,  they  seemed 
unconscious  of  our  presence.  The  two  younger 
men  went  on  with  their  conversation;  the  elder, 
kingly  as  Saul,  looked  silently  across  the  sea 
towards  that  lost  paradise  of  his  race,  Andalusia. 
Our  luggage  was  laid  down  at  their  feet;  they  did 
not  even  glance  at  it.  After  a  few  minutes,  the 
youngest  Moor  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
waved  his  hand  slightly  in  our  direction. 

"All  right,"    said    Ali,    "  good    custom-house, 

ves  ? " 
yes. 


TANGIERS  221 

The  bearers  took  up  our  portmanteaus,  and  we 
passed  into  the  narrow  crowded  street  where  no 
vehicle  can  go,  and  where  Ali  had  hard  work 
to  protect  me  from  the  surging  crowd  of  heavily 
laden  porters  and  donkeys.  It  was  market  day. 
Ali  piloted  us  through  a  maze  of  narrow,  twist- 
ing lanes,  and  markets  thronged  with  strange 
figures :  Moors  in  white  bournouses,  Jews  in  black 
caftans,  negro  slaves  with  gashed  faces,  wild  look- 
ing hill  men  with  blue  eyes,  who  looked  at  us  more 
fiercely  than  all  the  rest.  The  buyers  and  sellers 
outshrieked  each  other.  The  long  sharp  cry  of  the 
water-carriers,  the  braying  of  donkeys,  the  yelling 
of  man,  woman  and  child,  mingled  with  the 
hammering  of  the  tin  and  coppersmiths  in  the 
bazaars. 

In  the  vegetable  market  we  met  a  tall  old  Sheik 
with  a  long  beard,  dressed  in  a  lovely  pea-green 
jettabiyah,  with  turban  to  match,  and  salmon  col- 
ored undergarments.  Ali  salaamed  to  him. 

"Health  be  with  you!" 

"And  with  you  be  peace!"  The  Sheik's  voice 
was  like  distant  thunder.  He  carried  a  large  basket. 
The  seller  of  vegetables  received  him  respectfully, 
if  less  cordially  than  AH.  The  Sheik  cast  a  criti- 
cal eye  over  the  vegetables,  then  laid  his  hand  on 
a  bunch  of  young  carrots,  a  string  of  fresh  onions, 
some  ruby  radishes  and  some  long  green  beans. 


222      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Whatever  he  touched,  the  dealer  put  into  his  basket, 
saying,  "Take  it,"  each  time  more  faintly. 

"God  increase  thy  goods ! "  said  the  Sheik,  when 
he  had  considerably  diminished  them  by  half  filling 
his  own  basket. 

"And  thy  goods,  also,"  answered  the  dealer 
cheerfully,  as  the  old  man  pottered  off  to  the 
butcher's,  next  door. 

"He  is  holy  man,"  said  Ali ;  "they  all  give  to 
him." 

The  butcher's  gifts  —  a  skinned  sheep's  head, 
with  awful  staring  eyes,  and  other  gruesome  things, 
were  too  horrid  to  look  at.  We  waited  till  the 
Sheik  passed  on  to  the  bread  sellers,  a  group  of 
white  shrouded  women  sitting  against  a  wall.  They 
were  as  carefully  veiled  as  if  they  had  been  young 
and  lovely  ladies.  Each  had  a  cushion  before  her 
with  flat  loaves  of  bread.  When  the  middle  one 
gave  the  Sheik  a  loaf,  there  was  the  rattle  of  bangles, 
and  a  glimpse  of  a  hand  that  might  have  belonged  to 
the  Cumaean  sibyl. 

Outside  the  market,in  the  midst  of  the  mad  hurly- 
burly,  there  appeared  an  incarnation  of  that  Orien- 
tal calm  we  had  begun  to  believe  the  Moors  had 
left  behind  them  in  Cordova.  Down  the  middle 
of  an  evil-smelling  lane,  a  man  on  horseback  rode 
slowly  towards  us.  The  squalling  crowd  made 
way  for  him,  flattening  itself  against  the  wall. 


TANGIERS  ,  223 

"Welcome!"  said  Ali,  as  the  stranger  passed 
in  the  odor  of  sandalwood. 

"Twice  welcome,"  answered  the  horseman.  He 
was  fairer  than  many  Spaniards;  his  brown  beard 
and  moustache  were  beautifully  combed  and  curled, 
he  had  a  high  aquiline  nose,  eyes  like  dark  jewels, 
thin  pencilled  eyebrows.  He  was  dressed  all  in 
white;  his  sulham  of  finest  wool  had  a  silk  braid 
round  the  edge,  and  tassel  hanging  from  the  hood 
drawn  over  his  head.  He  turned  his  horse  to  avoid 
us.  Except  for  that  slight  motion  of  laying  the 
reins  against  the  animal's  neck  —  the  action  showed 
a  slim  brown  hand  with  an  ancient  turquoise  ring 
—  he  gave  no  sign  of  having  seen  us.  It  is  a  sign 
of  Arab  as  of  British  breeding,  not  to  look  too  much 
at  strangers. 

"That  was  an  Arab  gentleman,"  said  J. 

"  Now  I  know  just  how  Abd-er  Rahman  looked ! " 
murmured  Patsy. 

The  horse  was  a  spirited  chestnut,  with  a  skin 
so  thin  the  veins  showed  under  it,  and  delicate, 
proud  feet  that  he  planted  scornfully  in  the  un- 
speakable filth  of  the  lane.  Later,  in  Blacksmiths 
Square,  where  we  lingered  to  watch  two  men  shoe 
an  old  white  mare  —  one  held  her  foot,  the  other 
put  on  the  shoe  —  a  servant  led  the  chestnut  up  to 
the  smith.  The  man  stopped  work,  patted  the 
chestnut  and  kissed  it,  while  his  helper  fed  it  with 


224      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

little  cakes.  Though  there  were  a  dozen  horses 
and  mules  waiting  their  turn  to  be  shod,  the  chest- 
nut took  precedence  over  all. 

Ali  explained  this  favoritism.  "That  horse, 
he  have  been  to  Mecca,"  he  said.  "That  make 
him  very  holy." 

For  all  his  holiness  the  homely  smell  of  the  chest- 
nut's scorched  hoof  when  the  hot  shoe  touched  it 
was  in  no  wise  different  from  the  old  white  mare's! 

Seeing  the  horse  fitted  with  a  set  of  new  shoes 
reminded  J.  and  Patsy  that  while  in  Morocco  they 
must  each  buy  a  pair  of  real  Morocco  slippers. 
Ali  had  a  friend  who  was  a  slipper  seller,  so 
we  hunted  him  up  in  the  quiet,  back  street 
where  he  lived.  We  found  him  in  a  tiny  bazaar 
like  a  big  box,  hung  with  slippers  of  every  size  and 
color.  The  others  were  so  long  choosing  their  shoes, 
the  street  was  so  deserted,  that  I  ventured  to  walk 
on  alone.  From  an  open  doorway  came  the 
drone  of  childish  voices  reciting  a  lesson;  an 
Arab  school  was  in  session.  Twenty  very  little 
boys  sat  upon  the  floor,  rocking  slowly  back  and 
forth,  reciting  verses  from  the  Koran  in  a  sort 
of  singsong  chant.  The  schoolroom  was  a 
dark,  dank  hole,  its  only  light  coming  from  the 
door.  Dazzled  by  the  blinding  light  of  the  street, 
I  did  not  at  first  see  the  schoolmaster,  a  young  man 
of  eighteen.  He  sat  near  the  door,  writing  out 


TANGIERS  225 

sentences  from  the  Koran  with  a  reed  pen,  in  a 
large  book  like  a  ledger.  He  had  just  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  page,  had  dipped  his  reed  in  a  fasci- 
nating bronze  inkstand  worn  in  his  sash,  and  I  was 
silently  admiring  his  beautiful  Arabic  handwriting, 
when  he  looked  up  and  saw  me.  A  tiny  boy,  who 
could  not  have  been  more  than  three,  just  then 
smiled  at  me.  He  was  such  a  bonny  child,  so  like 
one  of  the  children  at  home,  that  I  kissed  my  hand 
to  him. 

"Christian  dog!"  The  master's  rattan  whizzed 
through  the  air,  and  came  down  whack,  whack,  on 
each  side  of  the  boy's  head.  Then  all  the  little 
children  scowled  and  bit  their  thumbs  at  me.  The 
master  tore  the  neatly  written  page  from  the  book, 
crumpled  it  up,  threw  it  at  me,  and  retreated  across 
the  room,  the  book  under  his  arm,  cursing  me  as  I 
believe  I  was  never  cursed  before. 

At  that  moment  Ali  came  running  up,  and  after 
a  few  angry  words  with  the  schoolmaster,  hurried 
me  away. 

"They  no  like  you,"  he  said.  "I  am  your  friend; 
I  take  care  of  you." 

The  page  had  been  torn  from  the  book  because 
the  shadow  of  a  Christian  had  fallen  upon  it !  After 
that,  Ali  became  as  my  shadow,  mien  I  wanted 
to  stop  and  admire  the  tower  of  the  great  Mosque, — 
it  has  a  poor,  far-away  likeness  to  the  Giralda  — 


226      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

he  would  not  let  me  stay,  telling  me  that  it  was  not 
safe  for  Christians  to  linger  near  the  mosque  or 
the  tombs  of  saints. 

The  Great  Socco,  the  big  market-place  outside 
the  city  gate,  is  the  most  Oriental  thing  you  can  see 
without  going  to  India.  The  bazaars  of  Constan- 
tinople, the  Muski  of  Cairo,  even  the  streets  of 
Jaffa,  are  European  compared  to  it.  The  Socco 
lies  on  a  bare  hillside;  it  is  shut  in  with  walls,  and 
entered  through  a  handsome  Moorish  gate.  A 
restless  stream  of  camels,  asses,  beggars,  traders, 
fruit -sellers,  veiled  women,  jugglers  and  snake 
charmers  pulses  ceaselessly  back  and  forth.  A  car- 
avan from  Fez  was  starting  that  day,  another 
had  just  arrived.  The  camels  snarled  and  grunted 
as  the  drivers  unloaded  their  bales  of  merchandise 
and  dates.  Near  the  gate,  in  a  corner  of  compara- 
tive peace,  an  audience  had  collected  about  the 
one-eyed  story  teller.  He  beat  his  drum  as  we 
came  up.  Ali  gave  him  a  piece  of  silver,  and  we 
were  allowed  to  stand  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  and 
listen  to  the  tale  of  the  Fisherman  and  the  Genie 
told  in  Arabic  with  dramatic  gestures,  and  listened 
to  with  breathless  interest. 

There  was  an  encampment  at  one  end  of  the 
Socco,  extending  outside  the  gate  along  the  road  to 
"Fez.  The  tents  were  small  and  poor,  the  people 
who  lived  in  them  wild,  and,  at  the  same  time,  wan 


STREET  IN  TANGIEES. 


TANGIERS  227 

looking, —  the  most  wretched  of  all  the  wretched 
people  I  have  ever  seen.  They  belong  to  a  tribe 
of  Berbers  from  the  country,  driven  by  famine  into 
Tangiers.  The  blue  eyes  of  those  half-naked, 
half-starved  hillmen  shone  with  a  fierce  light;  the 
black-eyed  Moors  looked  gentle  beside  them.  Blue 
eyes  mean  white  blood!  The  wild  hillmen  have 
not  forgotten  where  it  comes  from.  They  remem- 
ber that  long  and  long  ago,  in  Roman  days,  a  tribe 
of  Vandals  and  Alans  —  some  say  eighty  thousand 
people  —  crossed  the  straits  to  Morocco  and  never 
came  back,  though  three  hundred  years  later  some 
of  their  descendants  came  over  to  Spain  with  Tarik, 
our  old  friend  of  Tarik's  Hill,  and  conquered 
Christian  Spain  for  the  Crescent.* 

Outside  the  Socco,  on  the  road  leading  up  to  the 
villas,  we  came  upon  a  white  umbrella  with  an 
artist  we  knew  by  sight  sketching  under  it,  guarded 
by  a  soldier.  His  was  the  first  Christian  face  we 
had  seen  since  we  left  the  steamer;  it  seemed  an 
age,  it  was  but  a  few  hours  ago.  We  greeted  each 
other  as  if  we  had  been  old  friends !  He  knew  Tan- 
giers well,  had  been  here  three  months  sketching, 

*The  other  day  a  Moroccan  embassy  to  the  German  Emperor  asked 
for  his  help  against  the  too  drastic  rule  of  Morocco's  new  masters,  the 
French,  on  the  strength  of  that  old  kinship.  Blood  is  thicker  than 
water.  The  blue  eyes  of  William  of  Hohenzollern  may  have  looked  with 
something  akin  to  sympathy  into  the  blue  eyes  of  the  Berber  hillmen 
when  he  went  hunting  among  them  on  his  famous  shooting  trip  to 
Morocco,  the  beginning  of  so  much  diplomatic  palaver! 


228       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

therefore  he  had  a  great  deal  to  tell  us  about 
Morocco  and  the  Moors.  I  noticed  during  all 
our  stay  that  the  people  who  had  lived  longest  in 
Morocco  were  the  least  positive  in  what  they  said 
about  the  Moors!  My  first  question  to  the  artist 
was  about  the  Berber  tribe. 

"During  the  Algeciras  Conference/'  he  said, 
"the  Sultan  feeds  them  with  bread  every  day,  so 
that  it  may  not  be  said  that  he  cannot  take  care  of 
his  own.  They  tell  me  here  that  the  day  the  Con- 
ference adjourns,  there  will  be  no  more  bread  given 
away  in  Tangiers." 

Before  lunch  time  J.  and  Patsy  adopted,  or  were 
adopted,  by  a  Hebrew  Jew.  Israel  was  his  name; 
Christian,  compared  to  the  fierce  Moslem  horde, 
was  his  nature.  He  was  a  neat  young  man,  edu- 
cated at  the  school  of  the  Israelite  Alliance  in  Tan- 
giers, pleasant  and  well  mannered,  his  chief  defect 
being  that  he  wore  silly  European  clothes,  when 
he  might  have  worn  lovely  Oriental  robes.  He 
quickly  confided  to  us  that  he  was  engaged  to  be 
married,  and  that  his  Rachel  was  suffering  from 
acute  dyspepsia.  He  didn't  say  dyspepsia,  but  he  il- 
lustrated it  with  unmistakable  sounds  and  gestures. 

"Let  her  take  one  of  these  after  every  meal." 
Patsy  handed  Israel  a  bottle  of  soda  mint  tablets. 
Israel  bent  himself  double  with  bowing.  Mean- 
while he  and  Ali  gabbled  together;  the  word 


TANGIERS  229 

haJcem  (physician)  was  repeated  several  times. 
The  soda  mints  worked  well;  they  suited  Rachel, 
and  Patsy's  reputation  as  a  physician  was  made. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  all  his  glory,  and  our 
discomfort. 

At  luncheon  there  was  quail  for  him,  larks  for  us. 
When  we  rode  out,  he  had  the  best  mount.  The 
pillows  of  his  bed  were  soft  as  down,  ours  hard  as 
brickbats.  That  night  Ali  consulted  him  about 
his  daughter,  who  seemed  to  be  suffering  from 
bronchitis.  A  box  of  Brown's  bronchial  troches 
was  unearthed  from  my  medicine  chest  and  given 
to  Ali.  Though  the  troches  were  mine,  the  credit 
was  Patsy's! 

I  saw  three  prisons  in  Tangiers :  the  prison  of  the 
Moors,  the  prison  of  the  Jews,  and  the  prison  of  a 
Prominent  Citizen's  wives.  In  the  first  two,  hid- 
eous and  squalid  past  belief,  criminals  are  kept; 
in  the  third,  the  mothers  of  the  prominent  citi- 
zens of  to-morrow,  in  whose  hands  lie  the  future 
of  Morocco.  This  prison,  called  a  harem,  was 
the  most  dreadful  of  all,  though  it  was  clean,  hand- 
some, had  a  large  patio,  marble  columns,  and 
whatever  else  passes  in  Morocco  for  luxury.  I  was 
received  by  the  Prominent  Citizen's  four  wives. 
The  favorite,  an  enormously  fat  young  woman, 
sleek  and  sleepy  as  a  cat,  had  painted  eyes  and 
finger  nails  reddened  with  henna.  After  the  first 


230       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

greeting,  the  other  women  paid  little  attention 
to  me;  the  favorite,  who  was  younger,  had  some 
questions  to  ask. 

"Are  you  married?  How  many  children  have 
you  ?  I  have  a  son.  She  "  — looking  at  a  woman 
who  sat  near,  a  sour-faced  creature  of  Chinese  type 
—  "has  only  daughters.  This  morning  we  saw 
you  pass  in  the  street.  I  know  that  everything  is 
different  in  your  country.  You  travel,  we  stay  at 
home;  you  go  out  unveiled,  we  may  not  show  our 
faces  to  any  strange  man.  There  were  two  men 
with  you  this  morning;  were  they  your  two  hus- 
bands?" 

I  tried  to  explain  Patsy.  It  seemed  stranger  to 
her  that  he  was  only  our  friend  travelling  with  us, 
than  if  he  had  been  an  extra  husband. 

A  servant  brought  in  a  copper  machine  like  a 
Russian  samovar,  and  the  Chinese  looking  wife 
made  tea  for  us  with  fresh  green  tea  leaves  and 
mint.  It  was  very  sweet,  and  not  just  what  I  am 
used  to  in  the  way  of  tea,  but  I  managed  to  drink 
one  small  tumblerful;  the  ladies  of  the  harem 
drank  glass  after  glass.  I  had  brought  a  present  of 
some  goodies,  and  when  these  had  been  distributed 
the  conversation  became  more  animated.  The 
women  all  examined  my  dress,  hat,  gloves  and 
jewels,  with  greatest  interest.  The  favorite  cried 
out  at  the  close  fitting  French  waist,  held  her  hands 


TANGIERS  231 

to  her  own  fat  sides,  and  shook  her  head  at  the 
very  thought  of  confining  those  Atlas  mountains 
of  flesh  with  stiff  whalebone.  I  told  her  that  I 
thought  her  dress  much  more  comfortable,  and  far 
prettier  than  mine ;  this  pleased  her  more  than  any- 
thing I  said. 

From  the  corridor  round  the  patio  heavy  green 
doors  led  to  the  women's  sleeping  rooms.  They 
had  no  windows;  no  light  or  air  could  ever  pene- 
trate those  dreadful  places,  quite  empty  save  for 
the  beds, —  mattresses  laid  on  the  floor  covered 
with  gay  quilts, —  and  several  large  clocks  hanging 
on  the  walls.  In  the  part  of  the  harem  I  saw  there 
was  literally  nothing  except  divans,  beds,  and  little 
stands  for  trays, — things  to  sit  on,  to  sleep  in,  to  eat 
from.  There  must  have  been  rooms  where  the  cook- 
ing and  housework  goes  on,  but  I  did  not  see  them. 
The  rooms  were  empty,  the  faces  of  the  women 
were  empty.  It  seemed  the  height  of  irony  that 
where  time  is  of  so  little  value  there  should  be  so 
many  timepieces.  The  English  lady  who  arranged 
the  visit  for  me  goes  often  to  this  and  other 
harems. 

"The  women's  lives  are  so  dull,  any  visitor  is 
welcome,"  she  said.  "One  rule  I  have  had  to 
make.  I  must  choose  the  subject  we  talk  about, — 
otherwise,  they  would  talk  of  unspeakable  things. 
They  are  so  coarse  and  dull.  Poor  things!" 


232      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

The  poorer  women  seem  better  off  than  the  well- 
to-do,  because  they  have  more  occupation.  They 
cook,wash,  and  make  the  clothes  for  themselves  and 
their  children.  They  must  be  very  strong,  for  I  saw 
women  carrying  the  most  enormous  loads  of  fag- 
gots. Divorce  is  not  uncommon  among  them;  the 
divorced  woman  is  always  given  back  her  dowry. 
A  bride  is  brought  to  her  husband's  house  heavily 
veiled.  It  is  for  her  to  lift  the  veil;  if  she  refuses, 
the  marriage  does  not  go  on.  I  heard  of  a  girl  who 
for  three  days  kept  her  veil  down,  and  was  then 
sent  back  to  her  parent's  house. 

It  was  pleasant  after  a  day  spent  in  the  muck  and 
confusion  of  Tangiers,  to  mount  Zuleika,  the  big 
gray  donkey,  and  ride  up  to  the  European  quarter 
for  the  sunset.  My  saddle  was  like  a  little  chair  set 
sideways  on  the  mule,with  a  swinging  board  to  sup- 
port my  feet.  Ali  walked  by  my  side,  Abdul, 
the  mule  driver,  just  behind. 

"Arrree!"  Abdul  cried,  and  twisted  Zuleika's 
tail  till  the  poor  creature  screamed. 

"Stop!"  said  Ali.  "By  thy  head,  do  not  that 
again.  Dost  thou  not  know  that  Christians  would 
rather  see  a  man  beaten  than  a  beast  ?" 

"  M ashallah! "  muttered  Abdul.  Israel,  run- 
ning beside  Patsy,  holding  his  stirrup,  told  him  in 
French  what  the  other  two  said,  so  they  were 
usually  silent  in  Israel's  presence. 


SPANISH    1'KASANTS. 


ALT   AM)   ZILK1KA 


TANGIERS  233 

We  were  on  our  way  to  see  our  friend  Mme.  Hor- 
tense,  whom  we  found  waiting  for  us  on  the  terrace 
of  her  pleasant  house.  She  had  kept  her  word,  and 
provided  a  characteristic  Moorish  entertainment 
for  our  afternoon's  visit, —  a  snake  charmer.  His 
long  bag  of  snakes  moved  as  the  mass  of  serpents 
writhed  and  wriggled.  One  after  another  he  took 
the  long  pythons  from  his  bag  and  let  them  coil  and 
twist  about  his  body.  Last  of  all  he  took  out  a 
small,  vicious  looking  serpent,  and  held  it  to  his 
mouth.  The  snake  bit  his  tongue,  or  appeared  to 
do  so,  for  drops  of  the  snakecharmer's  blood  fell  on 
the  white  marble  pavement. 

'You've  seen  enough?"  asked  Mme.  Hortense. 
She  spoke  to  the  snake  charmer  with  the  voice  of 
authority;  he  gathered  up  his  dreadful  linen  bag 
and  departed. 

"  Allahu  akbarl"  The  cry  of  the  Muezzin  in 
the  minaret  of  the  mosque  came  faintly  up  to  us  on 
the  heights. 

"Progress?"  said  Mme.  Hortense  in  answer  to 
my  question,  as  the  ridiculous  shambling  figure  of 
the  snake  charmer  left  the  terrace.  "Among  the 
Jews,  yes,  if  you  call  it  progress!  When  I  came 
here,  thirty-four  years  ago,  your  boy  Israel's 
father  and  all  the  rest  of  them,  wore  the  fez  and  the 
kaftan.  Now  many  of  the  younger  ones  wear  straw 
hats  and  trousers.  They  have  built  themselves 


234       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

comfortable  houses  in  the  worst  possible  taste. 
The  schools  of  the  Israelite  Alliance  have  really 
accomplished  a  miracle.  For  the  Moors  there 
is  no  progress,  believe  me.  In  all  these  years 
they  have  not  advanced  one  step.  Here  in  Tan- 
giers  they  are  on  their  good  behavior,  of  course; 
the  city  is  well  policed  by  the  European  powers. 
There  is  no  public  slave  market  here,  you  must 
go  to  Fez  to  see  that;  but  as  to  real  advance, — 
look  at  that  blind  man !  His  eyes  were  put  out  for 
stealing." 

Down  the  hot  road  under  the  blue  cactus  hedge 
a  poor  pock-marked  blind  man  cried  for  alms. 
Mme.  Hortense  threw  him  a  coin,  a  tall,  shrouded 
woman  who  was  passing,  a  bare  brown  child  astride 
on  her  hip,  picked  up  the  money  and  gave  it  him. 

"God  increase  thy  goods,"  said  the  blind  man. 
Then  as  he  wandered  down  the  hill  led  by  his  dog, 
tapping  with  his  cane,  "God  vouchsafe  thee  a  good 
evening.  May  thy  night  be  happy!" 

"He  is  my  cook's  son,"  said  Mme.  Hortense. 
"All  my  servants  are  Moors,  except  my  Jewish 
chairmen,  —  no  Moor  will  carry  a  Christian. 
I  like  the  Moors  best.  At  the  time  of  the  last 
uprising  I  asked  my  favorite  servant  what  he 
would  do  if  our  house  were  attacked.  He  said,  *I 
would  lie  down  on  the  ground  before  you.  That 
means  that  you  belong  to  me  and  that  they  must 


TANGIERS  235 

kill  me  before  they  touch  you/  I  think  he  would 
have  done  it,  too.  A  good  Moor  has  no  vices;  he 
neither  drinks  nor  smokes.  The  doctors  will  tell 
you  what  good  blood  they  have;  a  wound  heals 
with  them  in  half  the  time  it  does  with  us.  Of 
course  I  know  the  servant  class  best,  that  is  natural. 
The  better  class  do  not  like  us, —  can  you  blame 
them?  A  man  my  husband  knew,  quite  a  great 
personage  in  his  way,  got  into  evil  ways  from  asso- 
ciating with  Christians;  in  fact,  he  drank  himself 
to  death.  He  was  a  sacred  person,  of  the  family 
of  the  prophet.  The  faithful  believed  the  liquor 
he  drank  was  turned  to  milk  as  it  touched  his  lips, 
and  that  he  died  without  sin;  all  the  same,  the 
wise  ones  hold  us  at  arm's  length." 

"Progress!"  Mme.  Hortense  came  back  to  my 
question.  "Last  week  a  man  from  the  interior 
came  to  Tangiers  on  business.  It  turned  out  that 
it  was  important  for  him  to  stay  here  longer  than  he 
had  planned;  but,  at  some  sacrifice,  he  persisted 
in  returning  to  his  home  on  the  day  originally  fixed. 
It  leaked  out  through  his  servants  that  before  leav- 
ing home  he  had  walled  up  the  door  of  his  house. 
There  was  a  well  inside,. and  the  house  was  pro- 
visioned, as  if  for  a  siege,  but  the  women  would 
grow  restless  if  he  delayed  his  return  too  long!" 

While  Mme.  Hortense  talked,  there  appeared 
before  us  on  the  terrace,  as  if  by  magic,  a  lean  man 


236       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

with  very  few  clothes  and  bare,  sinewy  arms.  He 
was  a  juggler,  and  as  we  sat  there  looking  down 
on  the  flat  white  houses,  the  minarets,  the  sea  be- 
yond, listening  to  Mme.  Hortense's  stories  of  life 
in  Tangiers,  the  juggler  pulled  from  his  mouth 
length  after  length  of  rose-colored  ribbon,  till  he 
stood  in  a  pink  bower  miraculously  produced  from 
his  interior.  A  string  of  large,  dangerous  looking 
needles  followed  the  pink  ribbons  from  his  inex- 
haustible maw. 

"Baraka,  baraka!"  Enough,  enough,  cried 
Mme.  Hortense.  The  juggler  bowed  and  was  gone 
as  he  had  come,  silently,  and  as  if  by  magic. 

I  never  knew  where  Ali  slept  or  when  he  ate. 
If  I  wanted  him  at  the  most  impossible  time,  he 
was  always  there !  One  morning  when  the  voice  of 
the  sea  and  the  song  of  the  birds  called  me  out  into 
the  garden  for  the  sunrise,  I  thought  I  had  escaped 
him.  Before  I  reached  the  end  of  the  oleander 
walk  he  was  at  my  side.  Then  came  the  natural, 
if  unreasonable,  demand:  "Ali,  I  am  so  hun- 
gry, get  me  something  to  eat." 

"He  cook,  he  hurry  up;  lady,  wait  ten  minutes." 
"I  can't  wait.     Get  me  a  glass  of  milk." 
"Pick  your  pardon,  lady,  no  can  squeeze  the 
buffalo  before  he  had  his  breakfast." 

Such  strange  and  interesting  creatures  lived  in 
that  garden:  wonderful  long- tailed  Japanese  cocks 


TANGIERS  237 

with  their  neat  little  hens,  a  lame  gazelle,  a  white 
peacock,  some  blue  Australian  pigeons,  and  many 
other  birds, —  and  they  all  had  their  breakfasts 
before  I  had  mine.  When  Ali  finally  brought  it 
on  a  tray  and  set  it  on  a  table  under  a  mammoth 
mulberry  tree,  I  was  so  busy  with  the  bread  and 
honey  —  orange  blossom  honey;  when  I  took 
the  lid  off  the  jar,  the  perfume  was  as  strong  as  if 
I  had  held  a  bunch  of  orange  flowers  in  my  hand  — 
that  I  did  not  notice  two  gentlemen  who  were  wait- 
ing for  their  breakfast.  The  buffalo  had  been 
squeezed  by  this  time,  for  the  gentlemen's  servant 
brought  them  dates  and  milk. 

My  neighbors  were  an  odd  pair:  an  old  man 
who  looked  like  Jumbo,  with  wise  small  eyes, 
and  gray  wrinkled  skin  like  an  elephant's,  and  a 
young  man,  his  son  or  grandson,  who  could  not 
have  been  more  than  twenty,  though  the  lower 
part  of  his  face  was  covered  with  a  full  soft  beard. 
They  were  Orientals,  I  thought,  and  they  would 
have  looked  better  in  turbans  and  robes  than  in 
European  dress.  They  talked  together  in  a  lan- 
guage whose  very  sound  was  unfamiliar.  They 
seemed  so  remote,  so  unconscious  of  my  presence, 
so  much  more  like  figures  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights 
than  fellow  travellers,  that  when  the  older  man 
came  up  to  my  table,  spoke  to  me  in  perfect  Eng- 
lish, and  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  see  La  Depeche 


238      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Morocaine,  the  French  daily  newspaper,  I  was  as 
much  astonished  as  if  the  Sheik  of  the  market-place 
had  spoken  to  me  in  my  own  tongue.  We  talked 
about  the  weather,  the  view,  the  picturesqueness 
of  Tangiers;  when  the  ice  was  well  broken  I  found 
that  he  wanted  to  talk  about  things  at  home. 

"It  is  many  years  since  I  was  in  America,"  he 
said.  "I  rarely  meet  an  American."  Where  did 
he  live?  "When  I  have  the  good  fortune,"  he 
made  me  such  a  bow  as  Solomon  might  have  made 
the  Queen  of  Sheba,  "I  like  to  hear  how  the  Great 
Experiment  is  working  out."  Then  followed  a 
searching  examination  about  affairs  at  home.  His 
questions  showed  a  complete  ignorance  of  detail, 
a  good  grasp  of  large  issues.  He  read  me  as  if  I 
were  a  book  he  only  had  time  to  skim  through. 
After  I  had  told  him  what  I  could  about  "the  work- 
ing out"  of  what  he  called  "the  Great  Experi- 
ment," I  asked  him  to  tell  me  something  about  the 
Sultan  of  Morocco  and  his  brother  Muli  Hafid. 
He  asked  permission  to  smoke;  an  Indian  servant 
brought  him  a  nargileh.  When  it  was  drawing 
nicely,  and  the  smoke  came  cool  to  his  mouth  after 
passing  through  the  water  in  the  crystal  jar,  he 
spoke  as  one  who  speaks  with  authority. 

"I  have  known  Abdul  Aziz  and  Muli  Hafid  since 
they  were  boys.  They  are  both  weak  men;  there  is 
little  to  choose  between  them.  I  knew  their  father, 


TANGIERS  239 

Muli  el  Hassan,  before  them.  He  was  a  strong 
man;  he  ruled  this  people  by  might,  the  only  way. 
He  was  clever,  too,  pitted  the  strong  tribes  against 
each  other  so  that  they  punished  one  another :  thus 
all  were  kept  in  order,  and  the  balance  of  power 
preserved.  When  he  died,  the  power  remained 
in  the  hands  of  the  young  Sultan's  mother  and  the 
Grand  Vizier:  people  said  he  was  her  lover, —  that 
is  as  it  may  be.  Then  the  Vizier  died,  the  young 
Sultan  took  the  reins,  and  everything  was  changed. 
The  English  got  hold  of  the  boy,  as  they  have  got 
hold  of  so  many  a  weak  young  ruler  before  him. 
Abdul  Aziz  became  so  completely  under  English 
influence  that  it  was  said  in  the  bazars  he  wore 
English  clothes  under  the  native  dress.  He  is  not 
only  a  weak,  but  a  pleasure-loving  person;  the  two 
things  usually  go  together.  His  favorite  amuse- 
ments are  playing  polo  and  going  out  at  night  in 
one  of  his  many  automobiles.'*  This  he  said  scorn- 
fully, and  pulled  so  hard  at  his  pipe  that  the  water 
bubbled  in  the  vase. 

The  young  man  looked  at  me  and  laughed. 
"  Would  you  rather  he  took  to  ballooning,  father  ? 
Even  a  Sultan  of  Morocco  must  amuse  himself. 
I  knew  a  fellow  the  Sultan  took  a  fancy  to.  One 
sign  of  his  favor  was  that  he  accepted  my  friend's 
riding  crop  and  cigarette  case  and  forgot  to  make 
any  return  present.  He  told  me  a  good  story 


240      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

about  Abdul  Aziz:  One  day  he  was  riding  with 
him,when  they  met  the  Sultan's  caravan  on  its  way 
from  Tangiers  to  Fez,  bringing  Abdul  Aziz  a 
grand  piano.  It  had  come  on  to  rain,  as  it  some- 
times can  rain  in  Morocco!  The  Sultan  insisted 
on  having  the  piano  unloaded  from  the  camels' 
backs  and  put  together.  Then  he  sat  down  and 
strummed  on  the  piano  in  the  middle  of  the  pelt- 
ing rain,  and  the  camels  and  the  camel  drivers 
and  all  the  escort  stood  round,  or  sat  on  their 
horses,  and  waited,  on  the  road  to  Fez." 

"That  was  like  him,"  said  the  old  man.  "It 
was  when  he  had  become  so  unpopular  with  the 
people  on  account  of  the  English  influence  that  he 
remitted  the  taxes  for  four  years  as  a  bid  for  pop- 
ularity. Taxes  once  lifted  from  a  people  like  this 
are  not  easily  put  on  again.  The  country  was 
nearly  bankrupt;  the  Sultan  was  at  the  last  gasp 
financially.  As  usual  he  appealed  to  the  English 
for  help.  Just  then  the  understanding  between 
England  and  France  was  complete:  France  was 
to  withdraw  from  Egypt  and  leave  England  a 
free  hand  there;  in  return  for  this,  England  was 
to  withdraw  her  influence  and  support  from 
Morocco.  Egypt  was  worth  more  to  England 
than  Morocco;  the  Sultan  was  sold  for  forty  pieces 
of  silver." 

"More    than    he    is     worth!"   said    the    boy. 


TANGIERS  241 

"France  or  England,  does  it  matter  which?  They 
are  the  only  two  civilized  countries  in  Europe." 

"There  is  only  one  country  that  can  civilize," 
said  the  old  man,—  "England!" 

"It  would  have  gone  on  well  enough,  if  William 
the  Wilful  had  not  put  his  finger  into  the  pie,"  said 
the  boy  resentfully.  His  sympathies  were  evi- 
dently with  France. 

"We  were  in  Fez  when  the  German  Emperor 
made  that  famous  visit  to  the  Sultan,"  said  the  old 
man.  "I  have  never  seen  the  people  so  moved. 
They  were  in  a  frenzy  of  joy;  they  thought  they 
were  saved!" 

"That  bubble  was  soon  pricked,"  said  the  boy. 

"Perhaps,  but  the  Conference  sitting  over  in 
Algeciras  would  never  have  come  off,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  his  visit." 

"What  will  the  Conference  accomplish?"  I 
asked. 

"It  will  insure  what  the  diplomats  call  *  the 
integrity  of  Morocco'  for  a  little  longer,  that  is 
all." 

"How  will  it  end?" 

The  old  man  stroked  his  long  gray  beard  with  a 
truly  Oriental  movement  of  the  hand.  "Keep 
your  ear  to  the  ground,"  he  said;  "the  end  of  Islam 
is  not  yet.  There  are  more  Mohammedans  than 
Christians  in  the  world;  they  still  make  converts. 


242      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

I  myself  knew  an  English  Lord  who  became  a  mus- 
selman." 

"Instead  of  quarreling  among  themselves,  let 
the  Christians  unite!"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Strife  there  must  be.  The  young  tigers  wrestle 
together,  or  they  would  not  be  strong  to  wrestle 
with  the  enemy  when  it  is  time  to  go  out  into  the 
jungle  and  kill!" 

We  might  have  gone  on  gossiping  till  dinner 
time, —  they  were  in  no  hurry, —  if  Ali  had  not 
reminded  me  of  an  engagement  that  could  not  be 
postponed;  I  had  been  invited  to  tea  with  the 
Lady  of  Tangiers. 

The  house  of  the  Lady  of  Tangiers  is  set  on  the 
edge  of  a  high  cliff.  Far,  far  below,  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliff,  the  waves  break  into  white  foam  flowers, 
and  the  seagulls  flit  and  swoop  in  restless  flight  over 
the  emerald  sea.  House  and  garden  are  shut  in  by 
a  high  wall.  A  man  on  horseback  was  waiting  in 
the  road  outside  the  gate,  surrounded  by  a  horde 
of  beggars  and  cripples.  A  pair  of  white  shrouded 
women  stood  a  little  apart,  each  with  a  child  on  her 
shoulder.  The  horseman  was  armed :  a  pair  of  pis- 
tols and  a  knife  were  stuck  in  his  sash,  a  rifle  was 
slung  over  his  shoulder;  at  his  left  side  hung  a  long 
sword.  Man  and  horse  were  both  of  pure  Arab 
breed;  there  was  a  certain  likeness  between  them. 
Both  were  thin  and  wiry,  with  delicate  feet,  fierce, 


TANGIERS  243 

flashing  eyes,  thin,  quivering  nostrils.  The  man  sat 
impassive  as  a  bronze  statue,  and  gave  no  sign  of 
having  seen  our  queer  cavalcade  as  we  rode  up, — 
Zuleika,  the  big  gray  donkey,  with  me  in  my  ridicu- 
lous chair  saddle  on  her  back,  Ali  running  beside, 
and  Abdul  hanging  on  to  her  tail.  The  horse 
pricked  its  dainty  ears,  whinnied,  and  turned  its 
head  to  look  at  us. 

" Es-salem  alekum!"  Health  be  with  you,  said 
Ali,  who  never  allowed  himself  to  be  ignored. 

"U  alekum  es-salem!"  and  with  you  be  peace, 
answered  the  Arab  on  the  horse. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  inside  the  garden  caused 
great  excitement  among  the  cripples.  The  gate 
was  opened  and  a  servant  came  out  leading  a  beau- 
tiful little  boy  of  four  or  five.  At  the  sight  of  the 
boy,  a  fair  child,  with  brown  curls  and  pretty, 
gracious  manners,  a  howl  arose  from  the  beggars 
and  cripples.  They  tried  to  get  hold  of  him,  to 
kiss  his  hands  or  touch  his  garments.  The  servant 
and  the  man  on  horseback  kept  them  back  as  best 
they  could.  The  horseman  laid  about  him  with 
the  flat  of  his  sword : 

"By  the  life  of  the  prophet,  room  there  for  my 
lord  the  prince!  Yalta!  Go  on!" 

"I  am  under  thy  protection,  save  me!"  cried  the 
oldest  beggar;  he  was  rather  cleaner  than  the 
rest,  and  was  allowed  to  touch  the  little  foot 


244      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

before  the  horseman  caught  up  the  child,  set  him 
before  him,  put  spurs  to  the  horse,  and  galloped 
off  joyously  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

"Al  Allah!"  cried  the  old  beggar. 

" Al  Allah!"  echoed  the  cripples,  waving  their 
crutches  and  their  maimed  stumps  after  the  pretty 
child. 

AH  gave  my  card  and  letter  of  introduction  to 
the  servant.  I  was  invited  to  enter  the  garden. 
AH  waited  for  me  in  the  road  outside.  Near  the 
house  was  a  little  flower  bed,  with  a  few  homely 
English  flowers;  some  one  had  been  at  work  among 
the  marigolds.  Outside  the  door  stood  a  large 
rocking-horse,  a  drum  and  a  toy  trumpet.  I  had  not 
long  to  wait  in  the  reception  room,  before  the  Lady 
of  Tangiers  appeared.  She  greeted  me  heartily. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  and  led  the  way  to  a  large 
comfortable,  English  drawing-room.  I  suppose  I 
showed  some  surprise  at  finding  myself  in  so 
thoroughly  British  an  interior,  for  she  said: 

"I  lead  a  double  life.  With  the  Arabs,  I  am  an 
Arab;  with  the  Europeans,  I  am  a  European.  We 
will  have  our  tea  here  first, — you  will  like  my  tea 
better  than  my  daughter-in-law's;  then  I  will 
take  you  into  the  Arab  part  of  the  house  and  intro- 
duce you  to  my  son's  wife." 

At  the  first  glance  the  Lady  of  Tangiers  looked 
the  full-blooded  English  woman  she  is  by  birth. 


TANGIERS  245 

As  I  talked  with  her,  I  felt  something  Oriental  in 
her  expression.  You  cannot  live  three  parts  of 
your  life  among  an  alien  race  without  catching 
something  of  the  racial  look.  First,  and  last,  and 
all  the  time,  I  felt  her  to  be  a  woman  of  power. 
The  servant  who  brought  the  tea  said  something 
to  her  in  Arabic. 

"Were  there  many  children  waiting  in  the  crowd 
outside  the  gate?"  she  asked. 

I  told  her  I  had  seen  only  two. 

"They  can  wait,  or  come  to-morrow,"  she  said. 
"Their  mothers  have  brought  them  to  be  vac- 
cinated. When  I  first  came  here  I  once  spoke  to 
my  husband  about  a  child  I  thought  should  be 
vaccinated,  as  there  was  so  much  small-pox  about." 

"How  is  it  done?"  he  asked. 

"I  know  how  it  is  done,"  I  said,  "and  I  can  do 
it.  That  was  the  beginning.  Now  I  vaccinate 
hundreds  of  children  every  year.  That  is  the  sort 
of  missionary  work  I  believe  in.  There  is  not  the 
slightest  use  in  sending  Christian  missionaries  to 
any  Mahommedan  country,  unless  they  are  willing 
to  work  without  direct  religious  teaching.  Civilize 
first!  Teach  the  women  and  the  girls  to  cook  and 
sew,  something  about  the  laws  of  health,  and  the 
care  of  children." 

The  Lady  of  Tangiers  is  a  member  of  the  Church 
of  England,  by  the  way. 


246      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

I  asked  about  the  pretty  boy  I  had  met  at  the 
gate. 

"That  was  my  little  grandson,  Muli  Hassan, 
going  out  for  his  afternoon's  airing.  All  those 
people  hanging  about  were  waiting  to  see  him  start. 
To  them  he  is  not  only  a  noble,  but  a  sacred  person. 
My  husband  was  of  a  great  family.  He  was  de- 
scended from  the  Prophet, —  but  I  am  of  the  oldest 
family  in  the  world;  I  am  of  the  Adam  and  Eve 
connection!"  Her  eyes  danced  as  she  said  it. 
"In  certain  respects,  my  grandchildren  are  brought 
up  English  fashion,  as  my  children  were.  When 
my  oldest  boy  was  perhaps  twelve  days  old,  my 
mother,  who  had  come  out  from  England  to  be 
with  me,  thought  that  it  might  please  my  husband's 
old  nurse  to  see  the  baby  have  his  bath;  so  she 
called  her  into  my  room.  My  husband  was  asleep 
in  a  neighboring  room.  Suddenly  he  was  waked 
by  the  old  nurse,  she  was  past  eighty,  shaking 
him  by  the  arm  —  usually  she  would  not  have  dared 
to  disturb  him  — and  crying : 

"Come,  come  quickly!  The  Christians  are 
murdering  your  son,  they  are  drowning  him!" 

My  husband  hurried  to  my  room.  "What  does 
this  mean?"  he  cried  out.  When  he  found  out 
what  it  meant,  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  divan 
and  laughed  till  he  cried. 

When  we  had  finished  our  tea,  my  hostess  took 


TANGIERS  247 

me  into  the  part  of  the  house  where  her  son's  wife, 
the  mother  of  Muli  Hassan,  lives.  As  she  was 
receiving  native  visitors  in  the  reception  room,  the 
Lady  of  Tangiers  showed  me  into  the  bedroom;  a 
large,  handsome,  airy  room  with  windows  opening 
seawards,  and  comfortable  brass  beds.  We  had 
not  been  there  long, —  I  had  not  had  time  to  take 
in  half  the  beauty  of  the  outlook  from  those  win- 
dows, —  when  I  heard  behind  me  the  soft  patter 
of  bare  feet  on  the  tiled  floor,  and  the  daughter-in- 
law  was  at  my  side.  She  was  a  pretty  woman,with 
a  refined,  intelligent  face,  who  received  me  with  a 
charming  Oriental  reverence.  The  nails  of  her 
hands  and  feet  were  reddened  with  henna,  other- 
wise she  was  not  painted.  She  wore  a  pretty,  sim- 
ple, green  tissue  robe,  with  a  robe  of  dotted  muslin 
over  it. 

"May  thy  day  be  white  as  milk,"  was  her  first 
greeting.  Then,  "How  is  thy  health?" 

"She  is  sorry  she  cannot  speak  your  language," 
said  the  Lady  of  Tangiers,  "you  must  not  think 
her  an  uneducated  person  on  that  account.  She 
reads  and  writes  Arabic  beautifully." 

The  young  woman  was  in  mourning  for  a  rela- 
tive :  she  would  wear  it  for  forty  days,  she  told  me. 
Her  mourning  consisted  of  not  wearing  silk  or 
jewels, —  the  most  sensible  mourning  I  ever  heard 
of.  She  was  so  fair,  except  for  her  melting  eyes 


248       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

and  coal-black  eyebrows,  that  in  European  dress 
she  might  easily  have  passed  for  an  Italian.  As 
the  other  guests  were  waiting  for  the  daughter-in- 
law,  our  visit  to  her  was  short. 

"  Yalla  bina,"  now  let  us  go,  said  the  elder 
woman. 

"To  Allah's  protection,*'  said  the  mother  of  Muli 
Hassan. 

We  returned  to  the  English  drawing-room,  where 
I  stayed  as  long,  perhaps  longer,  than  good  man- 
ners allowed,  while  the  Lady  of  Tangiers  told  me 
things  that  I  hope  she  will  some  day  tell  the  world. 
While  I  was  listening,  entranced,  there  came  the 
sound  of  a  childish  voice  crying  "  Grandmama ! " 
The  little  Prince  Muli  Hassan  had  come  back  from 
his  ride.  I  had  stayed  an  unconscionable  time» 
and  my  visit,  the  most  interesting  episode  in  all 
those  interesting  Moroccan  days,  had  to  come  to 
an  end! 

While  in  Tangiers  our  party  was  much  broken  up. 
J.  and  Patsy  made  several  riding  trips  with  Israel,, 
leaving  me  to  potter  about  the  Socco  with  Ali, 
or  to  prowl  with  Mme.  Hortense  in  the  bazaars, 
where  I  bought  a  long,  salmon  colored  cloth 
gabardine  with  wide  sleeves  and  fascinating  silk 
buttons  and  loops;  and  a  fine  sulham  like  the  one 
the  Arab  gentleman  wore.  Both  are  men's  gar- 
ments, though  they  pass  muster  very  well,  on  the 


TANGIERS  249 

other  side  of  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  for  a 
woman's. 

Our  greatest  pleasure  we  all  enjoy  together, — 
a  dinner  at  one  of  the  foreign  villas  on  the 
heights.  It  was  nearly  dark  when  I  mounted 
Zuleika  and  rode  under  the  stars  and  a  thin 
crescent  moon  to  our  friend's  house.  All  the 
company  except  ourselves  belonged  to  the  diplo- 
matic circle.  They  were  as  agreeable,  well  dressed, 
and  well  bred  as  such  people  are  the  world  over. 
The  dinner  was  excellent,  the  talk,  for  me,  of  ab- 
sorbing interest.  After  dinner,  as  we  were  sitting 
talking  together  in  the  pretty  drawing-room,  ad- 
miring the  Arabic  curios  our  host  had  collected, 
we  heard,  faintly  first,  then  gradually  growing 
louder,  the  sound  of  a  shepherd's  pipe,  like  the  flute 
in  Tristan  and  Isolde. 

"I  thought  you  might  like  to  hear  a  little  Arab 
music,"  said  our  host,  leading  the  way  to  an  open- 
air  concert  room.  In  the  corner  made  by  two 
sides  of  his  house,  rugs  were  spread  upon  the 
ground,  lanterns  hung  among  the  rose  covered 
walls,  and  six  native  musicians  squatted  on  the 
ground.  Their  instruments  were  a  lute,  a  tam- 
bourine, a  reban,  —  two-stringed  fiddle  —  and  the 
shepherd's  pipe.  The  leader  was  a  handsome 
dark  man  with  dreamy  eyes,  and  the  face  of  an 
enthusiast.  He  threw  back  his  head  and  began  a 


250       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

song  that  was  like  a  wail;  the  others  joined  in  from 
time  to  time  like  a  chorus. 

"They  are  singing,"  said  the  host,  "the  Lament 
for  Granada!" 

When  anybody  says  Tangiers  to  me  suddenly, 
this  is  what  I  see!  The  Arab  musicians  sitting 
cross-legged  on  the  ground  under  the  stars,  and  the 
thin  crescent  moon.  I  hear  the  high  wail  of 
the  Moorish  pipe,  the  throb  of  the  drum  struck 
by  the  hand,  the  voices  of  the  Moorish  minstrels 
mourning  for  the  Moors'  lost  paradise,  singing  the 
Lament  for  Granada. 


MADRID 

ENORA,  this  is  my  mother,"  said  Pedra  the 
Vestal,  who  took  care  of  our  sitting-room  fire. 

"I  am  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  said 
Pedra's  mother;  she  shook  my  hand  heartily,  and 
looked  at  me  with  keen,  kind  eyes.  "In  regard  to 
the  washing,  I  will  call  for  it  on  Mondays  and  bring 
it  back  on  Fridays.  If  mending  is  required,  there 
will  be  an  additional  price." 

"Where  do  you  wash  the  clothes?" 

She  was  astonished  at  the  question.  "  In  the  river, 
where  else?" 

"And  where  do  you  hang  them  out  to  dry?" 

"On  the  river  bank,  near  the  palace  of  the  King." 

When  Pedra  the  Vestal  knelt  on  the  hearth  blow- 
ing the  bellows,  she  looked  more  than  ever  like  a 
Tanagra  figurine.  She  built  up  the  fire  with  odd 
little  chunks  of  dark  red  wood  that  give  out  a 
strange  perfume  of  the  forest,  and  burn  as  slowly  as 
soft  coal. 

"What  sort  of  wood  is  that?  "  I  asked. 


SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"Who  knows?  The  wood  of  a  tree,"  Pedra 
looked  over  her  shoulder  with  the  flashing  smile 
that  made  everything  she  said  pass  for  wit. 

"I  know;  it  is  ilex,"  said  her  mother.  "In 
Segovia  I  used  to  gather  it  on  the  mountain.  Here 
it  costs  too  much,  we  burn  charcoal." 

"Is  Madrid  dearer  than  Segovia?" 

"Madrid  is  the  dearest  place  in  the  world,  and 
the  coldest."  She  wrapped  her  faded  plaid 
shawl  about  her  shoulders.  There  had  been  a 
slight  snow  flurry  that  morning;  it  was  proper 
Christmas  weather,  but  Pedra  and  her  mother  took 
it  as  seriously  as  we  take  a  blizzard.  Pedra  was 
straight  as  a  lance,  hard  as  marble,  built  of  stuff 
that  wears  well,  judging  from  her  mother.  The 
elder  woman  was  not  one  of  those  mothers  who 
serve  as  a  dreadful  warning  of  what  a  daughter  may 
become,  if  she  had  lost  youth  and  freshness;  she 
had  kept  her  health  and  strength,  a  fiery  spirit,  a 
tough  fibre. 

The  next  time  she  came  in  to  mend  the  fire, 
Pedra's  bright  eyes  were  dull  and  red.  It  took  only 
a  little  coaxing  to  find  out  her  trouble. 

"  My  mother  brought  bad  news,"  she  said.  "  My 
brother  has  married  a  girl  who  is  not  worthy  of  him. 
Though  we  are  poor,  Sefiora,  our  family  is  an  old 
one;  there  is  none  more  respected  in  Segovia. 
After  all  the  sacrifices  we  made  for  Juan  to  keep  on 


MADRID  253 

the  little  shop  that  was  my  father's, —  to  marry 
beneath  him,  it  was  unworthy,  it  was  ignoble!" 
The  tears  came  to  her  eyes  again.  Here  was 
Castilian  pride,  indeed. 

We  had  come  to  Madrid  meaning  to  keep  house 
for  six  months  or  more.  We  soon  found  that  a  fur- 
nished apartment  at  a  moderate  price  in  Madrid 
is  as  rare  as  a  roc's  egg.  We  spent  several  days 
driving  up  and  down  the  streets  of  the  quarter 
where  we  wished  to  live,  looking  up  at  the  houses. 
A  large  sheet  of  blank  paper  hung  at  the  end  of  a 
window  or  balcony  means  unfurnished  apartments 
to  let,  in  the  middle,  furnished.  We  could  find 
nothing  available.  It  seemed  as  if  we  must  give 
up  our  plan  of  passing  the  winter  in  Madrid.  Then 
came  the  great  invitation.  Our  old  friends  Don 
Jose  and  Dona  Lucia  Villegas  asked  us  to  share 
their  large  comfortable  home.  When  we  found 
they  really  wished  us  to  accept  this  unparalleled 
hospitality,  J.  and  I  moved  over  to  their  delightful 
apartment,  and  Don  Jaime  found  a  modest  hotel 
for  Patsy. 

The  Villegas'  house  is  opposite  the  handsome 
new  National  Museum  on  the  Paseo  Recoletos,  a 
wide  avenue  laid  out  in  the  grand  style  of  the 
Champs  Ely  sees. 

Madrid  is  a  modern  capital;  at  first  it  seemed 
as  if  we  had  left  picturesque  Spain  behind  us  and 


254       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

come  to  a  modern  European  city,  a  little  like  Paris, 
a  little  like  Brussels,  and  not  at  all  like  the  Spain 
we  knew.  Then,  as  we  began  to  learn  our  way 
about  the  city,  we  found  that  beside  the  new  Ma- 
drid, with  its  splendid  boulevards,  its  conventional 
new  houses  and  cafes,  its  air  of  prosperous  business, 
there  was  an  old  Madrid,  full  of  quaint  corners  and 
picturesque  buildings. 

The  palace  of  the  King  stands  at  the  edge  of  this 
old  Madrid,  boldly  planted  on  the  high  land  above 
the  river,  where  the  old  Moorish  Alcazar  once  stood, 
a  magnificent  situation  for  a  royal  palace.  The 
fa9ade  fronts  and  dominates  the  city;  the  rear  looks 
out  on  vast  stretches  of  royal  demesne. 

"This  looks  more  as  a  palace  should  look  than  any 
I  ever  saw,"  said  Patsy.  We  had  driven  over  one 
sharp  clear  morning  to  see  Guard-mounting.  "All 
grand  and  white  and  shining.  The  sort  of  a  palace 
where  lovely  princesses  with  golden  hair  always  live 
in  poetry, —  sometimes  even  in  history." 

On  the  right  of  the  palace  is  the  noble  Plaza  de 
Armas,  where,  besides  the  guards  pacing  up  and 
down  their  beat,  there  was  a  continual  coming  and 
going  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  In  a 
sheltered  corner,  under  the  very  palace  windows, 
two  boys  were  playing  at  marbles.  This  was  all 
in  keeping  with  what  we  had  seen  and  heard  of  the 
democratic  character  of  the  people.  At  one  end  of 


MADRID  255 

the  Plaza,  the  long  narrow  arches  of  the  peristyle 
frame  a  stupendous  view.  Behind  the  palace  runs 
the  river  Manzanares;  beyond  lies  the  royal  park  of 
the  Casa  de  Campo,  with  its  masses  of  green  trees, 
broken  here  and  there  by  the  glint  of  a  lake,  or  the 
spire  of  one  of  poor  Isabel  Second's  expiatory 
chapels.  Beyond  the  park,  the  bare  plains  of  Cas- 
tile sweep  grandly  to  the  north,  rising  to  the  stern 
snow-capped  range  of  the  Sierra  Guaderrama. 

It  was  all  dearly  familiar,  because  Velasquez 
has  painted  that  blue-gray  landscape,  that  silver 
light  sometimes  hardening  to  steel,  those  snow 
mountains,  not  once,  but  many,  many  times,  as 
the  background  of  his  pictures. 

"The  Manzanares  is  not  much  of  a  stream  com- 
pared to  the  Guadalquiver,"  said  Patsy.  "That 
must  be  the  bridge  the  Frenchman  meant,  when  he 
advised  the  King  of  Spain  either  to  sell  his  bridge, 
or  to  buy  a  river! "  He  pointed  to  a  big  handsome 
bridge,  curiously  out  of  proportion  to  the  size  of 
the  meagre  river. 

Not  far  from  the  palace,  along  the  river  bank, 
was  a  gorgeous,  tremulous,  swaying  mass  of  color, — 
scarlet,  blue,  orange,  every  tint  of  the  rainbow. 

"That,"  said  Patsy,  "looks  like  the  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold.  Those  might  be  the  fluttering 
pennons  of  Leon  and  Castile,  Navarre  and  Ara- 
gon." 


256      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"Don't  look  too  closely,  or  you  will  lose  the  illu- 
sion. That  is  the  drying  ground,  where  Pedra's 
mother  and  the  other  washerwomen  of  Madrid 
hang  out  their  clothes." 

"Standards  of  heroes,  standards  of  heroines, 
what's  the  odds  ?  They  are  heroines.  I  stood  and 
watched  them  yesterday,  their  petticoats  kilted  up 
to  their  knees,  rubbing  and  scrubbing  and  singing 
at  their  work." 

A  young  American  artist  painted  an  admirable 
picture  of  the  drying  ground  with  its  many-colored 
garments  not  long  ago.  He  worked  in  summer, 
close  to  the  river  when  the  water  was  low,  and 
caught  a  fever  that  put  an  end  to  all  his  painting! 

Fronting  the  palace  is  the  large  oval  Plaza  del 
Oriente,  with  a  good  equestrian  statue  of  Philip  IV, 
surrounded  by  a  circle  of  quaint  marble  statues  of 
Visigothic  and  Spanish  kings  and  queens,  from 
Berenguela  to  Isabel  the  Catholic. 

"We  know  Philip  IV  better  than  all  the  rest  of 
them  put  together! "  Patsy  exclaimed,  as  we  walked 
round  the  royal  group.  "Thanks  to  the  genius  for 
making  a  likeness  of  that  young  man  shown  by 
Velasquez,  whom  he  engaged  as  his  valet  de  chambre 
at  a  salary  of  eleven  dollars  a  month.  Philip  young, 
thin  and  cadaverous,  Philip  old,  fat  and  blowsy;  I 
know  his  face  as  well  as  I  know  my  own.  People 
who  want  to  be  remembered  by  posterity  should  be 


MADRID  257 

very  polite  to  the  painters  and  sculptors  —  even  to 
the  writers  —  of  their  day.  Strange  they  don't 
realize  it!" 

Madrid  was  gay  with  Christmas  bustle;  streets 
and  shops  were  crowded;  Pedra  was  busy  with  the 
presents  that  poured  into  the  house  for  Lucia  and 
Villegas.  From  Granada  came  a  cask  of  oil,  from 
Malaga  a  small  barrel  of  grapes,  from  Jerez  a  cask 
of  olorosa,  from  Tangiers  a  box  of  oranges,  from 
Seville  a  flagon  of  cologne,  the  finest  in  the  world,  — 
it  smells  of  fresh  orange  blossoms. 

One  morning,  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  I 
heard  a  strange  hob-gobbling  noise  outside  in  the 
passage.  I  opened  my  door;  there  was  Pedra, 
flushed  and  out  of  breath  with  the  effort,  trying  to 
get  two  large  speckled  turkeys  up  the  terrace  stairs. 

"Mire"  she  said,  "observe  these  fine  birds, 
Senora,  a  present  from  the  country.  I  shall  mix  a 
dish  of  corn  meal  and  hot  water  for  them,  that  will 
be  the  food  of  luxury,  fattening  besides.  Poor  ani- 
mals! they  shall  live  well  until  Cisera  wrings  their 
necks." 

Cisera,  the  Tuscan  cook,  followed  the  procession 
up  the  terrace  stairs,  and  felt  the  larger  turkey. 

"In  a  week,"  she  said,  "he  will  be  fit  to  kill,  per- 
haps sooner." 

When  the  turkeys  had  been  fed  with  the  food  of 
luxury,  Pedra  showed  me  another  gift  that  had  just 


258      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

come  for  Villegas.  "  Don  Jose  will  like  this  more 
than  all  the  rest,  you  will  see!"  she  said. 

Villegas  is  the  Director  of  the  Prado  Museum. 
What  Pedra  called  the  best  present  was  a  "testi- 
monial," with  his  photograph  and  a  complimen- 
tary address  signed  by  all  the  employees  of  the 
Prado.  He  gave  the  dreadful  thing  with  its  im- 
possible plush  frame  the  place  of  honor,  and  hung 
it  up  himself  in  the  hall. 

Cisera  killed  the  larger  turkey,  and  stuffed  it 
with  pistacchio  nuts  for  the  Christmas  eve  dinner- 
party. As  we  were  all  sitting  together,  waiting  for 
the  last  guest  to  arrive,  Gil,  the  melancholy  Gal- 
legan  man-servant,  threw  open  the  door  and  an- 
nounced : 

"The  Bohemian  Gentleman." 

A  big  blond  man  with  dancing  blue  eyes  and  a 
ruffled  shirt  came  in,  followed  by  Pedra,  carrying  in 
her  upraised  hands  a  tray  with  two  enormous  hams 
(she  looked  like  the  picture  of  Titian's  daughter 
with  the  fruit). 

"  A  good  Christmas ! "  the  Bohemian  made  Lucia 
a  grand  bow.  "I  have  brought  you  a  pair  of  hams 
from  Prague!" 

"The  best  hams  in  the  world,"  Villegas  patted 
one  of  them.  "I  was  afraid  you  had  forgotten  this 
year!" 

"They  should  be  good;  the  pigs  were  raised  on 


- 

0 

fe 
o 

H 

fa 

0 

GO 

Q 

— 

3 

i 

w 

— 
— 

H 


MADRID  259 

my  father's  farm,  and,  I  was  assured,  were  fed  on 
nothing  but  milk." 

Before  the  turkey  made  its  appearance,  Villegas 
had  discovered  that  among  his  guests  were  people 
of  seven  nationalities,  and  that  four  languages  were 
being  spoken  at  the  table. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  the  Tower  of  Babel."  The 
name  stuck  for  as  long  at  least  as  that  hospitable 
house  was  our  home. 

"What,"  I  asked  Don  Jaime  who  sat  beside  me, 
"is  the  Bohemian  gentleman's  name?" 

"Of  baptism  or  of  family?" 

"Both,  particularly  of  family." 

"Ah!"  the  Don  relapsed  into  Spanish,  "no- 
body can  pronounce  it;  it  begins  with  a  cough 
and  ends  with  a  sneeze.  He  is  called  Don 
Carlos  the  Bohemian,  because  he  comes  from 
Bohemia.  He  copies  royal  portraits  in  the  Prado 
for  the  Archduke  Eugenio  of  Austria;  no  one  has 
made  such  copies  of  Velasquez  since  Villegas  left 
off  painting  them!"  The  Bohemian  saw  we  were 
speaking  of  him,  for  he  looked  over  at  us. 

"This  lady,  whose  name  I  did  not  catch,"  he 
said,  "is  an  American?" 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  little  Serafita,  who  gives  music 
lessons  to  the  Infanta;  "she  is  English,  Yankee, 
from  New  York."  In  Madrid,  American  means 
South  American,  unless  the  contrary  is  stated. 


260      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

I  asked  Serafita,  a  sparkling  Andaluz  with  a  drop 
of  Hebrew  blood  in  her  veins,  if  many  of  her  pupils 
worked  seriously.  "Only  a  few,"  she  said,  "more 
give  up  their  music  when  they  marry.  It  is  the 
same  with  their  other  studies.  The  women  I  know 
drop  their  reading  and  studies  when  they  leave 
school.  If  one  cannot  talk  with  them  about  the 
fashions  or  the  last  ball,  they  have  nothing  to  say. 
You  North  American  women  can  speak  on  every 
subject.  Our  women  are  not  less  clever,  but  our 
men  do  not  wish  us  to  be  improved,  for  they  know 
that  we  are  naturally  more  intelligent  than  they 
themselves,  and  if  our  minds  were  cultivated  they 
believe  we  would  not  be  content  always  to  stay  at 
home." 

Villegas  had  lately  sat  for  his  photograph,  and 
as  Lucia  wished  opinions  on  the  likeness,  the  pho- 
tographs were  handed  round  the  table.  When 
they  came  to  Don  Jaime  he  counted  them,  and 
told  me  that  there  were  twelve,  and  all  alike,  adding 
with  a  sigh  that  if  there  were  only  twelve  Villegases, 
all  alike,  and  he  could  dine  with  all  of  them,  he 
could  then  be  sure  of  twelve  such  dinners  a  year! 

Before  Villegas  came  to  Madrid,  and  took  Don 

Jaime  under  his  wing,  the  Don  often  had  no  dinner 

-  so  he  confided  to  Patsy.     One  does  not  exactly 

dine  when  one  spends  two  cents  a  day  for  food. 

"Under  such  circumstances,"  the  Don  said,  "it  is 


MADRID  261 

best  to  invest  all  your  money  in  bread  of  the  day 
before;  it  costs  less  than  fresh  bread,  and  goes  far- 
ther." 

While  we  were  still  at  table,  there  came  a  tre- 
mendous ringing  at  the  door-bell.  There  was  a  lull 
in  the  conversation  as  Gil  opened  the  front  door. 
"A  message  and  a  box  from  the  bedchamber  of 
the  King  for  Don  Jose!"  cried  a  loud  voice  in  the 
hall  outside. 

"Put  down  the  box.  Don  Jose  is  dining,"  Gil 
replied  firmly. 

"  Give  him  the  message  then  as  I  give  it  to  thee. 
Here  are  the  pantaloons  of  his  Majesty  the  King. 
They  must  be  returned  by  the  fifteenth  of  the 
month,  when  his  Majesty  wishes  to  wear  them." 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment. 

"I  am  painting  the  King's  portrait,"  said  Vil- 
legas;  "as  he  is  not  very  fond  of  posing  they  have 
sent  me  the  clothes  to  work  from  before  the  next 
sitting." 

"The  Infanta's  wedding  is  on  the  eighteenth," 
said  Lucia;  "perhaps  they  are  wanted  for  that. 
Be  sure  nothing  happens  to  them  at  the  studio." 

It  was  nearly  twelve  when  the  Bohemian,  the 
first  to  make  the  move,  rose  to  go.  They  keep 
late  hours  in  Madrid,  even  later  than  in  Paris.  Don 
Carlos  was  reproved  for  breaking  up  the  party  so 
early. 


SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"I  promised,"  he  said  by  way  of  excuse,  "to  be 
at  the  Countess  Q's  for  midnight  mass." 

"I  should  not  have  thought  that  misa  del  gallo  — 
cockcrow  mass  was  exactly  in  your  line!"  said 
Don  Jaime.  ;'You  grow  devout  with  years!" 

"  Ah,  well  —  I  know  the  music  will  be  good,  they 
will  give  selections  from  Carmen.  Besides,  I 
promised  I  would  stay  and  help  them  out  with  the 
supper  and  dance  after  the  mass." 

Just  then  Gil  brought  in  a  curiously  shaped  old 
bottle  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs. 

"Try  this  before  you  go,"  said  Villegas;  "it  is 
Trafalgar  1805,  the  year  of  the  great  vintage  of 
Jerez  and  of  the  great  battle."  He  himself  poured 
out  the  wine,  with  greatest  care  not  to  shake  the 
bottle. 

"It  is  good  enough,"  said  the  Bohemian,  with 
another  of  his  grand  bows,  "to  drink  to  Dona 
Lucia's  health,  and,"  raising  his  glass,  "to  the  por- 
trait of  the  King." 

"The  portrait  of  the  King!"  We  drank  the 
toast  standing. 

The  next  morning  we  walked  over  to  the  studio 
with  Villegas  and  Lucia,  Gil  following  with  the  box 
from  the  bedchamber  of  the  King.  As  we  left  the 
Tower  of  Babel,  Cisera  came  running  after  us. 

"Don  Jose,  you  have  forgotten  your  brushes;" 
she  put  a  bundle  of  paint-brushes  done  up  in  a 


MADRID  263 

newspaper  into  his  hand.  Villegas  tucked  them  in 
his  pocket  and  thanked  Cisera;  it  is  her  privilege 
to  wash  the  brushes,  and  she  allows  no  one  else 
to  touch  them.  The  studio  is  in  the  Pasaje  del 
Alhambra,  rather  a  picturesque  place  for  Madrid, 
not  more  than  half  a  mile  from  the  house.  Though 
it  was  late,  after  ten  o'clock,  the  streets  were  very 
uncomfortable  on  account  of  the  floods  of  water 
pouring  through  them.  The  extreme  dry  ness  of 
the  soil  and  the  air  makes  it  necessary  to  flush  the 
streets  twice  a  day!  A  pair  of  wild  looking  gypsy 
girls  were  standing  by  one  of  the  corners,  watching 
the  water  pouring  from  the  hydrant.  The  taller 
girl  was  very  handsome,  the  shorter  one  seemed 
older,  and  had  an  ill-tempered  face,  with  a  head 
shaped  like  a  snake's.  They  stood  gaping  at  us 
with  the  dazed  look  of  country  people  unused  to  a 
city.  They  were  so  poorly  dressed  I  rather  thought 
they  would  beg  of  us. 

"What  a  type!"  said  Villegas,  looking  at  the 
handsome  girl,  a  beauty  with  rough  black  hair 
hanging  over  the  eyes,  and  a  half  fierce,  half  shy 
expression. 

"What  character  in  that  head,  eh?" 

"She  has  exactly  the  face  you  have  been  looking 
for,"  said  Lucia.  "Ask  her  to  come  to  the  studio 
and  pose." 

They  spoke  to  the  handsome  girl,  who  seemed  to 


264      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

agree.  At  this  the  elder  girl  caught  her  by  the  arm 
and  dragged  her  back. 

"No,  no,  you  shall  not  go!"  she  cried.  "Do 
you  know  what  he  will  do  ?  He  will  look  you  in 
the  eyes  fixedly,  fixedly,  like  this,  and  while  he  is 
looking  at  you,  he  will  suck  your  blood!"  At  this 
the  two  took  to  their  heels  and  ran  for  dear  life. 

;*You  see  how  difficult  it  is  to  get  models  in 
Madrid ! "  Villegas  laughed.  "One  is  driven  here, 
by  force,  to  paint  portraits!" 

We  were  passing  a  house  in  a  garden  where  an  old 
retired  General  and  his  old  wife  sat  opposite  each 
other  on  the  porch  in  large  covered  invalid  chairs, 
keeping  a  sharp  lookout  on  all  passers-by.  They 
were  both  deaf,  and  imagining  other  people  heard 
no  better  than  they,  talked  quite  audibly  about  the 
people  in  the  street. 

"There  goes  Villegas,  the  painter,"  said  the  wife. 
"He  seems  amused  about  something."  (Don  Jose 
had  laughed  to  tears  over  the  gypsy's  warning). 
"What  do  you  suppose  his  servant  is  carrying  in 
that  big  box?" 

"What  ridiculous  curiosity,"  growled  the  Gen- 
eral; "isn't  it  the  same  old  box?" 

"No,  I  never  saw  it  before.  I  wonder  what  he 
has  got  in  it!" 

As  we  reached  the  corner  of  the  Barquillo,  Vil- 
legas exclaimed:  "There's  the  Novio.  He  must 


MADRID  265 

have  been  ill,  he  looks  rather  pale;  I  haven't  seen 
him  for  a  week."  The  novio,  a  pallid  young  man 
in  a  plaid  suit,  stood  in  a  protected  angle  of  the  side- 
walk, looking  up  at  a  window  at  the  top  of  a  high 
house  where  a  roguish  girl's  face  looked  out  from 
between  the  curtains.  The  young  man  was  talk- 
ing with  his  fingers  in  the  deaf  and  dumb  language. 

"He  talks  so  fast  I  cannot  read  what  he  says," 
said  Villegas.  "But  one  can  guess;  one  has  either 
heard  or  said  such  things  oneself,  is  it  not  so  ?" 

At  the  opposite  corner  the  old  flower  woman, 
who  sat  stooping  and  huddled  under  her  black 
shawls  like  the  eldest  of  the  Fates,  chose  from  her 
stock  a  white  hyacinth  and  silently  handed  it  to 
Villegas,  who  gave  her  a  coin,  took  the  flower  and 
walked  briskly  on.  The  old  woman  sat  up  a  little 
straighter,  after  he  had  passed,  and  set  her  flowers 
in  better  order.  It  is  characteristic  of  Villegas  that 
people  always  sit  up  straighter  and  put  their  affairs 
in  better  order  when  he  has  passed  their  way. 

Angoscia,  the  glove-maker  of  Granada,  who  takes 
care  of  the  studio,  and  serves  as  a  draped  model, 
opened  the  studio  door:  it  is  almost  impossible  in 
Madrid  to  get  either  male  or  female  models  to 
pose  for  the  nude.  Angoscia  is  a  pretty  young 
woman  with  an  almost  perfect  face,  beautiful 
hands  and  feet,  but  with  a  tendency  to  grow 
stout. 


266       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

'You  have  been  eating  maccaroni  again!"  said 
Lucia. 

"No,  no,  I  swear  by  the  Virgin  I  have  not.  I 
eat  nothing,  I  starve  myself,  I  am  hungry  always." 

"  Or  torrones.  You  are  much  fatter  than  before 
Christmas;  that  comes  of  giving  you  a  holiday!" 

Poor  Angoscia,  looking  worthy  of  her  name  — 
it  means  anguish  —  made  a  diversion  by  asking 
what  we  had  brought  in  the  box.  Lucia,  with  her 
help,  then  unpacked  a  fine  cocked  hat,  a  red  and 
blue  military  coat  and  waistcoat,  a  pair  of  short 
white  cloth  knee  breeches,  the  belt  linings  and 
pockets  of  heaviest  satin,  a  dainty  sword  and  sword 
belt.  Angoscia  drew  the  damascened  Toledo 
blade,  pretty  as  a  toy,  cruel  as  death,  from  its  sheath; 
it  glinted  in  the  sun  and  flashed  its  reflection  in 
her  soft  brave  eyes.  Everything  in  the  box  was 
most  carefully  packed,  each  silver  button  and  bit  of 
silver  lace  separately  wrapped  in  black  tissue  paper 
to  keep  it  from  tarnishing.  At  the  very  bottom  of 
the  box  was  a  long  thin  morocco  case.  This  I 
opened,  gave  a  scream,  and  almost  dropped  the 
case  that  contained  the  ensign  of  the  Order  of  the 
Garter.  The  garter  was  of  dark  blue  velvet  bor- 
dered with  gold.  The  letters  were  separate,  of 
very  thick  gold,  attached  by  invisible  rivets  to  the 
velvet.  After  the  legend  "Honi  Soit  Qui  Mai  Y 
Pense"  the  velvet  strap  was  heavily  embroidered  in 


MADRID  267 

gold  thread,  the  tab  and  buckle  were  finely  chased 
gold. 

"A  beautiful  piece  of  work!"  Villegas  turned  it 
over  in  his  hand  and  nodded  approval.  How  all 
good  workmen  feel  a  good  piece  of  work! 

"Edward  the  Black  Prince  was  made  the  first 
knight  of  the  Order  of  the  Garter  after  Crecy, 
when  he  brought  the  great  ruby  back  from  Spain," 
said  J. 

"Where  is  it  worn  ?"  That  was  a  serious  ques- 
tion. By  this  time  the  clothes  were  on  the  man- 
nikin ,  the  palette  was  set,Villegas  unrolled  the  great 
sheaf  of  brushes,  and  was  ready  to  go  to  work. 

"On  the  left  leg  below  the  knee,"  said  J.  There 
was  some  argument  on  the  point,  finally  settled  by 
appeal  to  a  Van  Dyke  portrait  in  the  Prado. 

"They  have  forgotten  the  shoes! "  cried  Angoscia. 

"There  is  nothing  remarkable  about  them:  any 
low  evening  pumps  will  do  till  the  next  sitting," 
said  Villegas. 

"Mariano  Benlliure  has  a  pair!"  cried  Jaime, 
and  went  off  in  a  cab  to  borrow  them.  He  came 
back  with  two  pairs  of  patent  leather  pumps  nicely 
fitted  on  wooden  lasts. 

"Mariano  must  be  very  rich,"  said  Jaime.  "I 
will  pawn  the  pair  you  don't  use,  send  him  the  ticket, 
and  when  he  wants  to  wear  them  he  can  redeem  the 
shoes." 


268      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

At  last  the  mannikin  was  dressed  with  the  King's 
clothes  and  put  in  the  right  pose  and  Villegas  got 
to  work.  He  did  not  like  to  paint  from  the  manni- 
kin; he  said  it  looked  too  stiff,  and  would  spoil  the 
portrait,  but  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  put  the 
King's  clothes  on  a  model! 

"If  Don  Alfonzo  had  only  given  me  a  sit- 
ting instead  of  going  hunting  to-day!"  he  sighed, 
squeezing  more  yellow  ochre  on  his  palette  to  paint 
the  garter;  "  I  should  like  to  have  gone  into  the  coun- 
try too!" 

"A  hundred  years  from  now  who  will  care 
whether  the  King  went  hunting  to-day  or  not? 
Somebody  may  be  glad  that  you  stayed  in  your 
studio  and  worked." 

"Quien  sabe?"  sighed  Villegas. 

"He  is  never  satisfied!"  said  Lucia. 

"The  day  he  is  satisfied,  he  will  be  finished!" 
laughed  J.  Villegas,  who  likes  company  when  he 
works,  and  can  endure  a  dozen  people  talking  in  the 
studio  without  listening  to  a  word  that  is  said, 
went  steadily  on  with  his  painting,  laying  on  the 
bold,  firm  strokes  of  color  in  a  manner  all  his  own. 

In  those  days  there  was  much  to  do  in  Madrid 
about  the  Infanta  Maria  Teresa's  wedding.  The 
trousseau  and  presents  were  exhibited  in  the  great 
dining-hall  of  the  palace.  The  jewels  given  by  the 
King,  Queen  Maria  Cristina,  and  the  bridegroom, 


MADRID  269 

Prince  Ferdinand  of  Bavaria,  were  said  to  be  fabu- 
lously fine.  There  were  fifty  dresses  with  shoes  to 
match,  among  other  items,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
outfit  was  on  the  same  scale.  The  bridegroom  and 
his  parents  arrived  in  Madrid  some  days  before 
the  wedding,  His  mother,  the  Infanta  Paz,  was 
the  sister  of  the  bride's  father,  Alfonzo  XII,  so  it 
was  a  family  affair  and  a  deal  of  entertaining 
went  on  in  the  palace  of  the  King.  Prince  Max  of 
Bavaria,  the  bridegroom's  father,  took  little  part 
in  the  merrymaking,  but  slipped  off  whenever  he 
could  to  the  hospitals  to  have  a  look  at  the  interest- 
ing cases,  and  compare  notes  with  his  confreres,  the 
surgeons.  The  story  was  told  of  his  coming  home 
late  to  lunch  one  day,  and  saying  to  the  guests 
invited  to  meet  him,  "I  have  made  such  a  success- 
ful operation  this  morning;  cut  off  a  man's  leg.  It 
all  went  well;  the  patient  stood  it  admirably!" 

"Even  royalties  are  becoming  emancipated," 
said  Patsy;  "they  have  practically  gone  on  strike. 
Can  you  blame  a  man  for  refusing  to  spend  his  life 
standing  round  waiting  on  the  chance  that  he 
may  be  wanted  to  fill  a  throne  ?  Here  you  have  a 
royal  explorer,  like  the  Duke  of  Abruzzi,  and  a 
royal  surgeon,  like  Prince  Max,  real  professionals, 
not  amateurs;  what  are  we  coming  to  next?" 

We  were  driving  along  the  gay  crowded  Calle 
Acala,  on  our  way  to  the  wedding. 


270      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"They  have  a  fine  day,"  Patsy  went  on.  "I 
saw  a  few  icicles  on  the  fountain  of  Cebele  this 
morning,  but  they're  all  melted  now.  At  home  we 
should  call  this  mild  weather  for  January;  here 
they  act  as  if  it  were  ten  below  zero." 

Every  carriage  or  automobile  we  passed  was 
•hermetically  sealed;  not  a  crack  of  a  window  was 
left  open,  and  the  Madrilefios  were  muffled  in  furs 
to  the  eyes.  The  climate  of  Madrid  is  not  half  so 
black  as  it  is  painted;  half  the  bronchitis  and  lung 
troubles  we  hear  about  come  from  too  much  wrap- 
ping up  and  too  little  fresh  air!  The  only  open 
carriages  to  be  seen  in  Madrid  at  this  season  belong 
to  the  royal  family.  They  set  a  good  example  in 
that  direction,  at  least. 

The  chapel  royal  of  the  palace,  where  the  wed- 
ding took  place,  leads  from  the  glass  enclosed  gal- 
lery that  surrounds  the  courtyard  at  the  second 
story,  and  communicates  with  the  bedchamber  of 
the  King  and  the  other  private  apartments.  Each 
door  is  guarded  day  and  night  by  two  tall  hal- 
berdiers, in  whose  hands  lies  the  safety  of  the  King. 
They  are  picked  men,  the  very  flower  of  the  army, 
the  type  of  Spanish  soldier  history  and  romance 
have  made  familiar.  They  look  as  fierce,  proud, 
and  terrible  as  the  men  who  marched  with  Cortes. 
The  young  officer  in  lovely  white  broadcloth  uni- 
form and  shining  feathered  helmet,  who  took  us 


MADRID  271 

in  charge  at  the  palace  door,  delivered  us  over 
into  the  hands  of  a  halberdier  in  a  cocked  hat  and 
short  clothes,  who  led  us  through  the  gallery, 
empty  save  for  the  guards  pacing  up  and  down. 
The  four  men  on  duty  at  the  chapel  door  stood  like 
breathing  statues;  they  never  moved  their  eyes; 
they  hardly  seemed  to  wink.  Though  they  were 
relieved  every  fifteen  minutes,  as  long  as  flesh  and 
blood  can  stand  the  strain,  one  of  the  big  handsome 
fellows  fainted,  before  his  quarter  of  an  hour  was 
over. 

Our  halberdier  —  his  name  was  Pedro  —  led  us 
up  a  private  stairway  covered  with  a  blue  Aubusson 
carpet,  sprinkled  with  roses  and  lilies  so  lifelike 
that  you  could  almost  pick  them,  then  to  a  little, 
dark,  secret  stair  leading  to  the  grated  balcony, 
where  we  were  to  sit,  as  if  in  a  private  stage  box, 
and  see  the  royal  wedding.  We  were  spectators, 
not  guests,  as  only  the  Court  and  the  diplomatic 
circle  were  admitted  to  the  floor  of  the  chapel. 
Don  Jaime  soon  joined  us;  he  had  made  the 
unprecedented  sacrifice  of  getting  up  at  ten  o'clock, 
so  that  he  might  tell  us  who  all  the  great  person- 
ages were. 

"To  the  left  sit  members  of  Government  and  his 
wifes.  Next  Greats  of  Spain "  -  usually  called 
Grandees  -  -  "  Major-domos-de-semana,  Gentil- 
hombres,  corps  diplomatique,  authorities,  mayor  and 


272       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

members  of  city,  dames  of  court,  generals,  cham- 
berlains, suite  of  bridegroom." 

"Solo  Madrid  es  corte;"  only  at  Madrid  is  there 
a  court,  according  to  the  old  saying.  The  arrival 
of  this  famous  Spanish  court  was  the  most  impres- 
sive feature  of  the  whole  gorgeous  pageant.  The 
ladies,  wearing  long  velvet  trains  and  white  man- 
tillas, entered  the  chapel  one  by  one,  bowed  before 
the  altar,  crossed  themselves,  and  with  consum- 
mate grace  and  dignity,  above  all  with  perfect 
calm,  made  their  way  to  their  places,  where  they 
spread  out  their  trains  and  settled  themselves  like 
so  many  brilliant  birds  of  paradise.  There  was  no 
noise,  no  confusion,  no  crowding;  it  had  all  been 
calculated  to  a  nicety.  There  was  plenty  of  time, 
and  plenty  of  space  for  everybody;  this  above  all 
else  made  for  the  great  distinction  of  the  ceremony. 
The  Chinese  minister  and  secretary,  in  their  em- 
broidered silk  gowns,  their  mandarin  caps  and  pea- 
cock feathers,  were  the  most  picturesque  figures  in 
the  diplomatic  tribune.  Chief  among  the  Grandees 
were  the  Knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece.  Patsy 
asked  the  name  of  one  whose  face  seemed  familiar. 

"Is  Pidal,  Duke  of  Veragua,"  said  Jaime.  "He 
receive  the  order  on  the  anniversary  of  1892,  as 
proof  of  worthy  to  be  descendant  of  Columbus. 
He  is  the  elevator  of  the  finest  bulls  in  Spain;  you 
will  see  them  at  the  next  corrida." 


MADRID  273 

"Are  all  the  seven  Spanish  Knights  of  the 
Golden  Fleece  here?" 

"No,  not  Count  Cheste.  Has  nineteen  seven 
years,  is  more  ancient  of  army  and  of  literature. 
It  is  a  poet." 

The  King's  clothes  had  been  returned  in  plenty 
of  time  for  the  wedding;  care  had  been  taken  of 
them,  they  looked  as  good  as  new  when,  to 
the  music  of  the  Lohengrin  march,  Don  Alfonzo 
walked  into  the  chapel,  leading  the  bride  with  one 
hand,  the  bridegroom  with  the  other. 

"It's  just  like  the  opera,"  Patsy  whispered. 
"  Wagner  made  no  mistakes  in  his  stage  directions; 
he  knew  all  the  traditions  of  the  Bavarian  Court, 
and  must  have  seen  a  royal  wedding  or  two." 

The  bride  wore  orange  blossoms  in  her  hair;  the 
front  of  her  satin  dress  sparkled  with  diamonds, 
the  train  of  white  velvet,  bordered  with  ostrich 
feathers,  hung  from  the  shoulders  and  was  carried 
by  a  page. 

"Her  code  is  three  metres  long,"  the  Don  told  us. 

The  bride  knelt  at  the  altar,  made  her  first  prayer, 
then  crossed  the  church,  passing  the  three  officiat- 
ing cardinals  in  their  arrogant  scarlet  robes,  to  the 
prie-dieu  where  her  mother  knelt  apart  from  all  the 
rest.  She  stooped,  and  raised  the  Queen's  hand 
to  her  lips.  The  Queen,  who  wept  openly  through- 
out the  ceremony,  kissed  her  cheek;  the  bride  then 


rejoined  the  bridegroom,  a  kind  looking,  round- 
faced  young  man,  with  thick  brown  hair.  The 
ceremony  was  performed  by  the  Archbishop  of 
Toledo,  Cardinal  primate  of  Spain,  a  subtle-faced 
old  man  with  silver  hair  and  benevolent  manners. 
The  King  knew  his  mass  perfectly;  he  kissed  his 
prayer-book  and  crossed  himself  at  all  the  proper 
times,  and  throughout  the  service  prompted  the 
bridegroom,  who  seemed  ill  prepared  and  had  evi- 
dently not  been  so  well  drilled. 

"Mea  culpa,  mea  culpa,  mea  maxima  culpa!" 
the  King  struck  his  breast  three  times  with  his 
clenched  fist,  as  he  said  the  words. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  Don  Alfonzo's  maxima 
culpa  is?"  murmured  Patsy.  "I  don't  believe  he 
has  had  much  chance  to  commit  one.  Villegas 
might  say  it  is  his  not  liking  to  pose.  Some  old 
fogy  might  say  it  was  his  habit  of  riding  his  horse 
up  the  palace  stairs.  I  would  not  give  a  fig  for  a 
young  man  in  his  position  who  didn't  do  that;  it 
is  a  time-honored  custom  of  gay  young  princes !  It 
wasn't  his  fault  that  he  was  born  a  king;  he  can't 
be  expected  to  forfeit  all  the  fun  he  might  other- 
wise have  enjoyed  as  heir  to  the  throne!" 

While  the  Archbishop  knotted  the  white  satin 
scarf,  symbol  of  the  marriage  tie,  about  the 
young  couple's  shoulders,  Don  Jaime  hurried  us 
down  to  the  gallery  to  see  the  cortege  pass  from 


MADRID  275 

the  chapel  to  the  private  apartments.  Our  hal- 
berdier, Pedro,  had  kept  us  a  place  opposite  the 
chapel  door.  The  gallery  was  lined  with  these 
superb  guards.  They  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
their  steel  halberds  flashing  in  the  sunlight  that 
streamed  through  the  glass  sides  of  the  gallery. 

"The  alabardaros"  Don  Jaime  explained,  "are 
a  particularity,  all  must  be  of  so  great  length."  He 
added  that  they  all  held  rank  two  grades  below 
what  they  had  held  in  the  army;  that  the  soldiers 
had  been  sergeants  and  the  general  formerly  a 
field  marshal. 

The  fateful  music  of  Mendelssohn's  march 
thrilled  through  the  gallery,  the  waiting  crowd  be- 
hind the  halberdiers  swayed  at  the  sound  as  wind- 
flowers  shaken  by  the  wind. 

The  wedding  party  came  out  of  the  chapel  behind 
four  mace  bearers,  stalwart  men  in  black  velvet, 
with  gold  maces  over  their  shoulders. 

"The  Infanta  Isabel,  the  King's  aunt,  es  muy 
Espanola!"  she  is  very  Spanish  — whispered  Jaime 
as  a  gray-haired,  hearty-looking  woman  passed, 
bowing  and  smiling. 

"I  like  her,"  said  Patsy;  "she  looks  a  thor- 
oughly good  sort;  she  has  twice  been  heir  to 
the  throne,  before  the  birth  of  her  brother  Al- 
fonzo  XII,  and  again  after  his  death,  before  our 
Don  Alfonzo  was  born.  Trying,  wasn't  it?  She 


seems  to  be  the  most  popular  of  the  elder  members 
of  the  family." 

The  Infanta  Eulalia  is  not  so  well  known  as  her 
sister,  the  Infanta  Isabel,  because  she  has  been 
little  in  Spain  and  prefers  to  live  in  Paris.  She 
looked  very  much  as  she  did  when  she  was  in  Chi- 
cago, at  the  time  of  the  World's  Fair,  very  elegant, 
very  graceful,  more  cosmopolitan,  less  Espanola 
than  her  sister. 

The  Queen  walked  with  Don  Alfonzo.  She 
wore  a  long  ash  colored  dress,  a  white  lace 
mantilla,  a  diamond  diadem,  and  the  finest  pearls 
I  ever  saw.  She  neither  bowed  nor  smiled. 

In  the  clear  sunlight  of  the  gallery,  at  a  range 
of  ten  feet,  one  saw  the  dreadful  look  of  suf- 
fering in  her  face.  It  must  have  been  a  trying  day 
for  her.  Her  eldest  daughter,  Princess  of  the 
Asturias,  had  died  only  a  year  before,  leaving  four 
little  children :  her  marriage  had  been  so  unpopular 
that  it  nearly  caused  a  revolution,  and  there  had 
been  none  of  the  rejoicing  and  merrymaking  her 
sister,  the  Infanta  Maria,  was  enjoying.  Besides 
this  recent  grief,  what  bitter  memories  must  have 
surged  up  in  the  Queen's  heart.  Her  own  mar- 
riage and  all  of  the  tragedy  and  suffering  that  it 
held.  Hers  had  been  a  state  marriage;  her  bride- 
groom met  her  at  the  altar  with  a  heart  still  sore  for 
his  adored  Mercedes,  his  first  wife  dead  in  the  first 


MADRID  277 

year  of  their  marriage.  Then  came  her  husband's 
early  death,  after  a  cruel,  lingering  illness;  the 
summoning  together  of  the  ministers,  to  whom 
she  announced  that  there  was  still  hope  of  an  heir, 
for  besides  her  three  daughters,  she  was  again  with 
child:  the  birth  of  that  child,  Alfonzo  XIII,  one 
of  the  very  few  who  have  been  born  King,  twenty 
years  of  passionate  devotion  to  the  care  of  the  deli- 
cate boy's  health,  his  education,  his  religious  train- 
ing. Twenty  years  of  intense,  unresting  effort  to 
keep  the  throne  for  her  son, —  all  this  among  a 
people  to  whom  she  was  ever  "the  Austrian,"  is 
still  the  Outlander.  And  now,  after  all  that  she 
has  done,  another  woman  is  to  usurp  her  place. 
Her  son  will  marry  within  the  year  a  woman  who 
has  been  bred  a  Protestant. 

As  she  passed,  without  a  look  at  the  people,  it 
seemed  that  for  once  the  mask  of  the  Queen  had 
dropped  from  the  grief-ravaged  face  of  the  woman. 

The  young  people  were  in  the  gayest  mood. 
Don  Alfonzo  nodded  and  smiled  to  right  and  left, 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  came  along,  laughing  and 
talking  together,  like  any  other  happy  young  couple. 
There  was  youth  and  hope  in  their  faces;  they  were 
still  far  from  the  stereotyped  bow,  the  dreadful 
mechanical  smile  of  the  elder  royalties. 

"Felicidad  eternal!"  said  Don  Jaime,  as  the 
bride  passed  us. 


278      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"A  good  word,"  Patsy  echoed  it  as  the  doors 
closed  behind  the  wedding  party.  "Eternal  felic- 
ity, may  they  be  as  happy  as  if  they  had  not  been 
born  in  the  shadow  of  a  throne." 


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XI 
THE   PRADO 

Par  las  calles  de  Madrid  Through  the  streets  of  Madrid 

se  pasea  un  valenciano  A  Valencian  was  straying 

con  un  clavel  en  la  boca  With  a  pink  in  his  mouth 

y  una  rosa  en  coda  mano.  And  a  rose  in  each  hand. 

T  ITTLE  Don  Luis  the  Valencian  took  the  pink 
i  ^  from  his  mouth,  when  he  met  Villegas  com- 
ing up  the  steps  of  the  Prado  Museum.  "I  was 
going  away,"  he  said,  "but  I  will  turn  back  with 
you.  Anything  for  an  excuse  not  to  go  to  work!" 

"Work!"  Villegas  fairly  snorted!  "You  call 
painting  work,  when  it  is  the  only  thing  you  like  to 
do?  Caramba!  There  are  some  things  in  this 
world  hard  to  understand!"  Villegas  was  dis- 
appointed. He  had  waited  an  hour  at  the  studio 
for  Luz,  who  never  came  for  her  sitting;  this  was 
quite  natural  the  day  after  the  court  ball. 

The  head  porter  met  us  at  the  door;  any  of  the 
famous  painters  whose  pictures  hang  in  the  room 
of  the  great  portraits  might  have  been  glad  to  have 
him  for  a  sitter.  He  was  a  handsome  man  of  the 


280       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

grave  Castilian  type,  with  a  big,  square  black  beard 
and  skin  like  alabaster.  He  wore  a  broadcloth 
overcoat  down  to  his  heels  and  a  gold  laced 
cap. 

"These  are  my  friends,"  Villegas  introduced  us. 
'You  will  give  them  any  help  they  may  need." 

The  porter  bowed  gravely  and  we  all  followed 
Villegas  into  the  Museum.  He  had  come  to  make 
his  morning  rounds,  and  little  Don  Luis  offered 
to  be  our  guide  while  he  looked  over  his  mail. 

"I  was  too  discouraged  to  paint  to-day,'*  said 
Don  Luis,  "so  I  came  for  help  to  the  great  artists, 
whose  work  is  here.  They  seem  to  hold  out  their 
hands  to  me,  and  say :  *  we  have  travelled  the  road 
you  find  so  hard;  we,  too,  have  known  discourage- 
ment and  despair!'  I  always  go  away  from  the 
Museum  as  from  the  company  of  my  best  friends, 
full  of  courage  and  hope." 

"The  way  I  feel,  after  seeing  a  play  of  Shake- 
speare's," murmured  Patsy.  "  Clever  work  dis- 
courages you;  great  work  puts  heart  into  you, 
makes  you  feel  you  can  go  home  and  do  something 
as  good,  that  you  might  even  have  done  that." 

Villegas,  who  loves  the  pictures  under  his  care 
as  if  they  were  his  children,  is  not  satisfied  with  the 
Prado,  and  is  always  hoping  they  may  some  day 
have  a  museum  worthy  of  them. 

"The  three  arts  should  be  united,  as  they  were 


THE  PRADO  281 

in  Greece,"  he  said.  "Oh,  for  a  building  that 
should  be  as  a  perfect  casket  for  the  two  jewels, 
painting  and  sculpture.  Other  museums  may 
illustrate  the  history  of  art  better  than  the  Prado, 
none  possesses  more  masterpieces  of  painting!" 

"He  has  performed  miracles  since  he  became 
Director,"  said  Don  Luis;  "not  only  in  the  care  and 
hanging  of  the  pictures,  but  against  the  risk  of  fire. 
He  has  put  in  all  the  latest  fire  extinguishing  appa- 
ratus. He  is  right,  though,  we  must  have  a  new 
building,  and,  it  appears  to  me,  he  will  get  it  for 
us!" 

The  Prado  was  built  for  a  Natural  History  Mu- 
seum, and  the  light  in  many  rooms,  especially  on 
the  upper  floor,  is  very  bad.  Many  valuable  pic- 
tures cannot  be  shown  for  want  of  space,  others  can 
hardly  be  seen  for  lack  of  light.  In  spite  of  these 
drawbacks,  the  Prado  is  the  most  delightful  Mu- 
seum I  know.  It  soon  became  to  us,  as  to  Don 
Luis,  a  second  home.  The  first  impression  is  of 
an  immense  hospitality;  there  is  no  entrance  fee 
to  pay;  the  Museum  is  free  to  all.  Then  the  guar- 
dians are  all  so  kind  and,  nearly  all,  so  good-look- 
ing. The  man  who  takes  your  umbrella  or  walking 
stick  treats  you  with  courtesy  and  respect,  not,  as 
in  some  galleries,  as  if  you  were  a  criminal  or  a 
lunatic  bent  on  poking  holes  in  the  canvases.  .  .  . 
Every  museum  has  its  climate  or  atmosphere;  the 


282      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

climate  of  the  Prado  is  genial  and  cordial  beyond 
compare. 

The  first  impression  we  received  of  the  pictures 
was  a  great  joy  that  there  are  so  many  surprises 
among  them.  A  few  of  the  Velasquez  and  the 
Murillos  we  knew  already,  but  as  a  whole  the  col- 
lection is  less  familiar  than  any  other  I  have  ever 
seen.  The  vast  majority  of  the  pictures  were  new 
to  us.  No  work  of  art  that  has  become  well 
known  through  endless  copies  and  reproductions 
can  make  the  impression  these  undreamed-of 
splendors  make.  As  Patsy  said,  "they  hit  you 
hard  like  love  at  first  sight!" 

Last,  but  not  least,  the  Prado  is  comfortable! 
It  has  wood  floors,  and  is  properly  warmed.  You 
can  spend  a  morning  there  without  that  fear  of 
catching  cold  that  haunts  you  in  the  chill  marble- 
paved  galleries  of  Italy. 

In  the  long  hall  of  the  Spanish  School,  Villegas 
joined  us.  We  were  looking  at  a  portrait  of  Mari- 
anna  of  Austria,  the  second  wife  of  Philip  IV. 

"This  is  a  copy  of  the  Velasquez  made  by  his 
son-in-law,  Maza,"said  Don  Jose.  "It  formerly 
passed  as  a  replica  by  Velasquez  himself." 

"And  how  do  you  know  now  that  it  is  not?" 
asked  Patsy. 

"You  shall  see."  Don  Jose  called  an  attendant, 
and  ordered  that  the  copy  be  carried  into  the 


THE  PRADO  283 

Velasquez  room  and  placed  beside  the  great 
original. 

"Observe  that  it  lacks  the  extraordinary  silvery 
tone  peculiar  to  Velasquez  and,  besides,  is  too 
accurate  a  copy!  Velasquez  would  never  have 
had  patience  to  copy  mere  accidents  of  brush- 
marks,  or  kinks  in  the  folds  of  the  dress,  if  he  had 
been  copying  one  of  his  own  pictures.  He  would 
preserve  the  tone,  the  spirit,  the  pose  of  the  original, 
but  he  would  not  go  seeking  to  make  the  same 
strokes  with  his  brush.  The  very  mechanical 
accuracy  helps  to  prove  this  a  copy  made  by  a  faith- 
ful pupil;  thus  it  is!" 

The  sixty-seven  Velasquez  pictures  are  all  to- 
gether in  one  room.  They  are  admirably  hung, 
in  the  chronological  order  they  were  painted,  so  that 
you  can  follow  the  painter's  work  from  the  begin- 
ning to  the  end.  The  impression  produced  is  of  a 
wonderful  living  autobiography.  Every  picture 
is  a  page  on  which  you  may  read  some  momentous 
event  in  the  artist's  life.  You  trace  his  develop- 
ment from  the  Adoration  of  the  Kings,  the  earliest 
picture,  to  St.  Anthony  the  Abbot  visiting  St.Paul, 
perhaps  the  latest.  It  is  an  autobiography  that 
cannot  be  read  at  a  glance.  In  that  first  visit, 
made  in  the  company  of  artists  to  whom  the  Velas- 
quez room  is  holy  as  Mecca  to  the  Mahommedan, 
I  was  introduced  to  the  genius  who,  for  the  next 


284      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

six  months,  I  was  to  study  and  try  to  under- 
stand. 

"Why  did  Velasquez  paint  so  many  pictures  of 
fools,  dwarfs  and  gabaloonzy  men  ?  "  Patsy  asked. 
We  were  looking  at  the  portrait  of  El  Primo,  the 
dwarf,  holding  in  his  tiny  hands  a  big  book,  look- 
ing out  from  under  his  slouch  hat  and  long  feather 
with  the  humpback's  sharp,  uncanny  eyes. 

"  Because  he  could  always  get  one  of  them  to  sit 
for  him  when  the  royal  sitters  disappointed  him," 
sighed  Villegas;  "  they  had  more  time  than  the 
courtiers,  and  were  perhaps  the  most  vigorous  and 
characteristic  subjects  for  painting  of  all  the  people 
he  lived  among." 

We  passed  on  to  the  idiot  Child  of  Vallecas. 
The  poor,  vacant  face  seems  to  flicker  at  you  from 
the  canvas,  the  weak,  wasted  hands  with  the  pack 
of  cards  never  took  hold  of  anything,  not  even  life 
itself,  save  with  a  faltering  grasp.  At  first,  when 
you  begin  to  study  Velasquez,  you  feel  it  monstrous 
that  his  genius  should  have  been  wasted  on  such 
ridiculous  deformities ;  in  the  end  you  accept  them 
all,  for  the  sake  of  the  genius  that  has  immortal- 
ized them. 

"  Look  at  that  hand!  "  said  Villegas,  as  we  were 
standing  before  the  portrait  of  Montanez,the  sculp- 
tor. *  How  it  is  painted !  With  nothing,  you  may 
say  —  zip-zap,  two  strokes  of  the  brush,  and  it  is  a 


DUKE    OF   OLIVAUES.     Velasquez 


THE  PRADO  285 

hand.     To   create   something   out   of   nothing  — 
colossal!  " 

*  That  is  a  good  copy,"  said  J.  A  canvas,  still 
wet,  stood  on  an  easel  near  the  Montanez. 

"  Ah,  yes  —  you  may  say  so.  That  is  made  by 
an  American  —  a  certain  Hibson ;  he  has  talent 
if  you  will;  he  will  arrive!  notice  what  I  say,  that 
man  will  go  far." 

In  Spanish  G  is  pronounced  H.  The  "  Hibson," 
of  whom  Villegas  foretold  great  and  serious  things, 
the  new  star  on  the  artistic  horizon,  in  an  earlier 
incarnation,  achieved  fame  as  the  creator  of  the 
Gibson  Girl! 

"  I  saw  that  effect  of  sky  this  morning.  Velas- 
quez painted  that  background  on  a  day  like  this." 

We  were  standing  before  the  portrait  of  the 
Duke  de  Olivarez,  with  the  bare  blue  plains  of  Cas- 
tile and  the  snow-capped  Guaderrama  behind 
him.  You  feel  the  keen,  clear  air  with  the  bite  of 
the  wind  from  the  snow  mountains,  as  you  look 
at  that  picture  of  the  Duke  on  his  prancing  war- 
horse  of  the  best  Arabo- Velasquez  breed! 

"  Look  at  that  dog!  It  is  nothing,  painted  with 
nothing,  when  you  look  close  at  it;  take  two  steps 
backwards,  and  it  is  everything." 

It  was  the  dog  in  the  Meninas,  one  of  the  details 
Villegas  never  failed  to  look  at  as  he  passed. 

'  That  is  a  canine  dog,"  said  Patsy.     "  Dogs  in 


286      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

pictures  almost  always  have  a  human  expression. 
These  of  Velasquez  look  as  dogs  must  look  to  each 
other;  it  is  as  if  they  were  painted  by  one  of 
themselves!  " 

The  Meninas  has  a  separate  room  to  itself. 
Look  at  the  picture  long  enough,  and  the  illusion 
seizes  you  that  you  are  really  looking  into  a  room 
of  the  gloomy  old  palace  of  the  Alcazar,  the  Court 
of  Philip  IV,  where  Velasquez  lived  and  worked  the 
greater  part  of  his  working  life.  You  can  walk 
into  that  room  where  he  stands  at  work  before  a 
big  canvas,  look  over  his  shoulder,  see  the  portrait 
he  is  painting  of  the  King  and  Queen;  you  can 
even  touch  him  on  the  arm  that  supports  his 
palette. 

"  He  paints  pictures  no  longer,"  cried  little  Don 
Luis  the  Valencian.  "  Like  a  god  he  creates  a 
world  with  light  and  atmosphere,  plains  and  moun- 
tains. Into  that  world  he  puts  kings  and  queens, 
buffoons  and  beggars." 

"  And  soldiers  and  horses!  "  said  Villegas,  stop- 
ping before  the  "Surrender  of  Breda,"  a  great 
spacious  picture  with  a  gray-blue  sky,  and  room 
enough  in  it  for  all  the  sublimity  of  victory,  the 
tragedy  of  defeat.  In  the  background  the  dis- 
tant town  of  Breda  still  smokes  from  the  besiegers' 
shells.  In  the  nearer  distance,  marching  up  the 
hill,  is  a  company  of  the  victorious  soldiers  armed 


THE  PRADO  287 

with  the  long  lances  that  give  the  picture  its  nick- 
name. The  men's  faces  are  grave,  they  show  no 
exultation  to  the  group  of  the  defeated  enemy  stand- 
ing opposite  to  them.  In  the  foreground  Justino 
de  Nassau,  the  defender  of  Breda,  offers  the  key 
of  the  city  to  the  victorious  general  Spinola.  De 
Nassau's  knee  is  slightly  bent  —  it  is  a  stubborn 
knee  and  hard  to  bend  —  as  he  holds  out  the  key. 
Spinola  has  neither  hand  free  to  take  it;  one  holds 
his  baton,  the  other  is  laid  in  what  seems  almost  an 
embrace,  on  De  Nassau's  shoulder.  '  Take  back 
your  key,"  he  seems  to  say.  *  To-day  it  was  our 
turn  to  win;  to-morrow  it  may  be  yours." 

What  was  it  Grant  said  to  Lee  about  needing  the 
horses  for  the  spring  plowing?  There  you  have 
the  magnanimous  spirit  of  Velasquez's  "  Surrender 
of  Breda  "  in  a  nutshell. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Villegas  to  a  stout  German 
artist,  who  was  working  away  in  grim  earnest  at  a 
copy  of  the  "  Lances  "  ;  "  your  color  is  too  hot, 
remember  the  cool  silver-grays;  always  try  for 
them!" 

"Ach  Gott,  you  have  said  it!  "  cried  the  poor 
man,  squinting  from  his  copy  to  the  original;  "  why 
could  I  not  myself  before  have  seen  it  ?  "  Then 
he  broke  into  profuse  thanks  to  the  Herr  Director, 
who  hurried  on  to  escape  them. 

*  I  have  a  plan,"  said  Villegas,  "  for  a  new 


288      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

arrangement  of  this  room."  We  had  passed  into 
the  long  gallery  of  the  Spanish  School,  from  which 
the  Velasquez  room  opens.  "  Here,  opposite  this 
entrance,  I  shall  hang  the  Titian  portrait  of  Charles 
V  on  his  war-horse;  it  is  too  much  sacrificed  where 
it  is  now.  Near  this  I  shall  hang  some  Tintorettos 
and  some  Grecos.  In  this  way  it  will  be  possible 
to  trace  the  influence  of  each  of  these  masters 
on  the  other:  the  influence  of  Titian  on  Tintoretto, 
of  Tintoretto  on  Greco,  of  Greco  on  Velasquez." 

The  head  porter,  who  had  come  hurrying  up  to 
Villegas,  now  delivered  his  message. 

'  They  have  telephoned  from  the  Palace  that  the 
King  of  Portugal  will  be  at  the  Museum  in  half 
an  hour." 

These  sudden  entrances  of  royalty  upon  the 
scene  added  enormously  to  the  interest  of  our  life 
in  Madrid.  The  marriage  of  the  Infanta,  the  be- 
trothal and  the  marriage  of  the  King  brought  more 
royal  visitors  to  Madrid  that  season  than  usual,  and 
they  all  came  to  the  Prado.  The  Museum  has  for 
them  an  especial  attraction  apart  from  the  artistic 
interest.  The  Prado  contains  portraits  of  the  an- 
cestors of  most  of  the  royal  personages  in  Europe, 
and  they  are  naturally  interested  in  seeing  their 
family  portraits.  The  collection  begun  by  Charles 
V,  and  constantly  added  to  by  his  descendants,  is 
essentially  a  royal  collection.  Isabel  II  generously 


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THE  PRADO  289 

gave  the  pictures  to  the  Spanish  nation.  How 
generously  that  gift  is  shared  with  the  artists  and 
art  lovers  of  all  nations,  every  visitor  to  the  Prado 
knows. 

Villegas  hurried  off  to  prepare  for  the  visit  of 
Don  Carlos,  the  King  of  Portugal,  and  little  Don 
Luis,  still  glad  of  an  excuse  not  to  go  back  to  work, 
offered  to  take  me  to  see  Don  Carlos  the  Bohemian. 
We  found  him  in  a  big  barrack  of  a  lumber-room 
smelling  of  paint,  turpentine  and  varnish,  at  the  top 
of  the  Prado.  He  was  at  work  on  a  copy  of  the  dis- 
puted portrait  of  Don  John  of  Austria.  He  threw 
down  his  palette  and  ran  to  meet  Don  Luis,  rump- 
ling up  his  hair  with  desperate  hands. 

"  Was  I  mad  to  undertake  it  ?  "  he  cried.  "  It 
is  the  fourth  Antonio  Moro  I  have  copied.  Not 
another,  not  for  a  million." 

"  Not  for  a  million,  no;  what  couldst  thou  do 
with  it  ?  But  for  —  well,  something  else  —  yes,  as 
many  as  thy  grand  duke  will  find  room  for  in  his 
museum!  " 

*  The  work  that  accursed  Fleming  put  into  a 
picture.  I  tell  thee  it  is  brutal  to  work  so  hard; 
he  had  the  patience  of  a  saint!  " 

"  Or  a  Coello  or  a  Pantoja.  It  is  not  a  Moro! 
Thou  hast  some  patience  thyself;  it  is  not  bad,  thy 
copy!"  Don  Luis  looked  critically  at  it;  "  a  little 
crude.  How  many  glazes  hast  thou  given  it  ?  " 


290      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  Only  eight." 

"Ah!  thou  seest?  thou  wilt  get  the  tone  soon. 
There  is  nothing  wrong  with  the  drawing;  the 
worst  of  the  work  is  over  with  that.*' 

"  Blessed  be  thy  mouth!  " 

Don  John,  the  Conqueror  of  Lepanto,  is  a  young 
man  standing  with  the  lion  of  Alcazaba  at  his  side. 
He  wears  a  shirt  of  mail  the  rings  as  fine  as  those 
of  a  lady's  purse,  and  every  ring  is  painted.  The 
fringe  of  the  cushion  is  painted  thread  by  thread, 
you  can  almost  count  the  hairs  in  the  moustache. 

"  How  can  you  know  where  to  begin  ?  "  I  asked. 
The  copying  of  this  life-sized  full  length,  painted 
with  the  detail  of  a  miniature,  seemed  a  desperate 
undertaking. 

"  I  know  how  the  devil  worked!  I  studied  and 
studied  him  till  I  got  his  secret;  ah,  there  is  no  one 
like  him;  he  is  a  despair!  See,  first  I  draw  every- 
thing in  black,  white  and  gray,  down  to  the  last 
detail,  then  I  get  my  tone  with  a  series  of  thin 
glazes.  Each  one  must  be  quite  hard  and  dry 
before  I  give  it  the  next.  It  takes  a  lifetime,  you 
may  say!  " 

A  delightful  copy  of  the  Velasquez  portrait  of 
little  Prince  Baltasar  with  the  gun  and  the  dog 
stood  against  the  wall.  '  Thou  hast  a  good  thing 
there,"  said  Don  Luis;  "  and  once  Velasquez  was 
hard  for  thee  to  copy!  " 


DON    BALTAZAU    CARLOS.     Velasquez 


THE  PRADO  291 

I 

"  How  he  baffled  me!  Now  I  have  learned  as 
much  of  his  secret  as  a  man  can  learn;  rather 
twenty-five  Velasquez  than  one  Moro.  This  is 
the  last,  if  I  live  to  finish  it!  " 

I  told  Don  Carlos  about  the  King  of  Portugal. 
"  He  always  comes  to  the  Prado  when  he  is  in 
Madrid,"  he  said.  "  He  is  a  fair  painter  himself, 
for  a  king.  There  is  a  portrait  of  his  worth  seeing 
in  the  Museum  of  Modern  Arts." 

"  I  think  he  once  complimented  thee  on  a  copy 
thou  wast  making  ?  "  said  Don  Luis. 

"  Perhaps  he  did,"  growled  Don  Carlos.  He 
smoothed  out  his  towsled  hair  and  went  back, 
grumbling  still,  though  less  violently,  to  his  work. 
Somehow  the  energy  of  despair  had  become  the 
energy  of  courage;  little  Don  Luis  the  Valencian 
with  the  pink  in  his  mouth  had  turned  the  water  of 
drudgery  to  the  wine  of  work! 

Madrid  was  perpetually  en  fete  during  the  visit 
of  the  King  and  Queen  of  Portugal.  We  had 
visions  of  them  flitting  by  like  figures  in  a  pan- 
orama, on  their  way  to  the  bull-fight,  driving  to 
the  gala  performance  at  the  opera,  reviewing  the 
troops.  The  review  began  with  an  open-air  mass, 
the  salute  of  the  flag  by  the  new  recruits,  and  the 
defile  before  the  two  kings,  Don  Alfonzo  and  Don 
Carlos.  The  artillery  was  much  applauded,  es- 
pecially the  mountain  battery,  a  troop  of  mules 


292      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

with  cannon  on  their  backs.  The  cavalry, 
a  fine  body  of  men  and  horses,  galloped  by 
the  grand  stand  at  breakneck  speed.  One  com- 
pany, all  mounted  on  white  horses,  preceded  by 
two  lines  of  buglers,  came  flashing  past  with  a 
splendid  dash  and  brilliancy  that  pleased  Don 
Carlos,  for  he  clapped  his  great  hands  and  cried 
"  Bravo."  After  the  review  the  two  kings  rode 
down  the  Paseo  de  la  Castellana  side  by  side.  Don 
Carlos,  an  immense  man  with  a  strong  likeness  to 
his  uncle,  Victor  Emanuel,  was  in  uniform;  he 
wore  the  broad  blue  ribbon  of  Charles  III,  and  a 
row  of  other  decorations  on  his  coat.  He  rode  a 
gigantic  sorrel  horse.  He  seemed  very  popular, 
for  there  was  a  deal  of  hand  clapping  and  hurrah- 
ing as  he  passed.  The  young  King  rode  beside 
him,  looking  gallant  and  boyish;  he  had  a  happy 
genial  smile  for  everybody.  Queen  Amelia,  a 
beautiful  woman,  built  on  a  generous  plan  to  match 
Don  Carlos,  followed  in  a  daumont  with  four 
horses  and  two  postilions.  How  often  I  have 
remembered  the  answer  of  a  Spanish  diplomat  to 
my  question  that  day: 

"  Is  Don  Carlos  as  popular  at  home  as  he  is  in 
Madrid  ?  " 

"  I  fear  not.  He  spends  too  much  money.  If  the 
things  were  done  here  that  go  on  in  Portugal,  Spain 
would  be  in  revolution  from  one  end  to  the  other." 


THE  PRADO  293 

Don  Luis  had  more  time  for  Patsy  and  me  in 
those  days  than  any  of  our  friends.  He  was  always 
ready  to  take  us  to  see  sights  or  studios.  One  day 
we  surprised  him  in  his  own  studio,  an  eyry  at  the 
top  of  a  tall  building.  A  card  pinned  to  the  door 
by  a  thumb  tack  told  us  where  to  knock.  A  little 
old  lady  with  a  white  cap  tied  under  her  chin 
opened  the  door.  She  had  a  kind  face,  wrinkled 
like  the  skin  of  a  late  russet  apple,  and  eyes  like 
Luis'.  She  led  us  along  a  narrow  passage  —  so 
low  Patsy  was  forced  to  stoop  —  to  a  little  door 
where  she  tapped. 

"  Is  it  thou,  Mama  ?  "  called  Luis  from  inside. 
"  Come  in,  if  thou  art  alone."  When  he  heard 
Patsy's  voice  he  ran  to  let  us  in.  The  studio,  an 
attic  with  a  slanting  roof,  was  filled  with  piles  of 
canvases  stacked  against  the  wall. 

"  Ay !  Virgincita!  don't  sit  down  on  the  palette," 
cried  the  old  lady,  "  nor  on  that  sofa;  this  chair  is 
quite  safe!  " 

On  an  easel  stood  the  picture  Luis  had  been 
working  on,  a  palace  interior.  There  were  flowers, 
jewels,  light,  warmth,  and  atmosphere  in  the  pic- 
tured room,  above  all  there  was  luxury;  that  was 
the  thing  most  insisted  upon. 

'  This  is  the  papa,  and  this  is  the  mama."  Don 
Luis'  mama  in  her  cotton  cap  hung  over  the 
picture  as  she  described  it.  "  How  it  is  painted, 


294      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

this  lace!     And  the  jewels,  they  shine  as  if  they 
were  real;  is  it  not  true  ?  " 

When  we  had  admired  all  the  pictures  Don 
Luis  would  show  us,  they  were  not  many,  he  was 
afraid  of  boring  us,  Patsy  reminded  him  of  his 
promise  to  take  us  to  the  Rastro. 

"  Go  thou  with  them  now,"  said  mama.  "  He 
has  not  been  out  to-day;  he  needs  the  air."  She 
pushed  him  from  the  studio. 

"  If  thou  wilt  promise  not  to  dust  " 

"  Ojala!  what  a  son  I  have!  I  promise,  if  thou 
wilt  go,  nothing  shall  be  touched.  I  swear  thou 
shalt  find  the  studio  as  thou  dost  leave  it." 

The  Rastro  is  a  vast  rag  fair,  a  city  within  a  city, 
where  the  poor  of  Madrid  who  cannot  afford  to  buy 
at  first  hand  may  buy  whatever  they  need  at  second 
hand. 

"  We  will  go  first  to  Las  Grandes  Americas," 
said  Don  Luis,  leading  the  way  into  an  enormous 
enclosure  surrounded  by  high  brick  walls.  "  This 
is  the  quarter  of  the  building  materials.  Here  you 
can  buy  doors  and  windows,  girders,  ceiling  beams, 
stairs,  everything  necessary  to  build  a  house. 
Across  the  way  are  fittings,  fireplaces,  stoves,  gas 
fixtures,  plumbing.  Here  you  can  furnish  your 
house,  your  studio,  even  your  church!  " 

If  we  had  been  bent  on  picking  up  antiquities,  we 
might  have  found  some  nice  things  in  the  quarter 


THE  PRADO  295 

where  the  refuse  of  the  churches  is  gathered. 
There  was  a  Madonna  dressed  in  a  fine  silk  robe, 
standing  in  a  little  shrine,  a  cherub's  head  in 
carved  wood,  a  gilded  ciborium,  a  carved  bas- 
relief  of  Santa  Justa  and  Santa  Rufina,  the  patrons 
of  Seville. 

It  was  a  sharp,  clear  day,  we  stopped  to  warm 
our  hands  at  a  fire  of  fagots  kindled  on  the  bare 
ground  in  the  middle  of  an  old  book  stall.  A  pale, 
near-sighted  priest,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire, 
stood  first  on  one  leg  then  on  the  other,  drawing  up 
one  foot  at  a  time  under  his  gown  for  warmth. 
He  had  his  long  nose  between  the  leaves  of  a 
parchment  book,  and  looked  absurdly  like  a  learned 
crane  as  he  shifted  from  foot  to  foot. 

The  firelight  brought  out  now  one  name,  now 
another,  as  the  flames  flickered  and  the  light 
played  along  the  backs  of  the  old  books.  On 
a  sudden  the  immortal  name  Don  Quixote  leapt 
from  the  shadow  in  letters  of  gold.  You  can 
always  pick  up  the  best  books  cheap  because,  like 
bread,  they  are  among  the  necessaries  of  life. 

"  Bayard  Taylor's  Voyage  to  Japan!  I  never 
knew  he  went  to  Japan.  It  looks  so  lonely  among  all 
these  Spanish  books,  I  must  rescue  it! "  said  Patsy. 
Don  Luis  bought  him  the  volume  for  three  perros 
chicos. 

"  Here's  your  Spanish  and  English  dictionary," 


296      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

said  Patsy,  who  has  the  scent  of  a  ferret  for  old 
books.  "  How  much  for  the  dictionary  ?  "  The 
dealer,  a  lean,  dyspeptic  man  in  black,  who  looked 
like  his  kind  the  world  over, —  the  old  bookman  is  a 
type  apart, —  sold  us  the  dictionary,  a  large,  clean 
and  most  precious  book,  for  four  pesetas.  A 
shabby  photograph  album  stood  on  the  shelf  next 
the  dictionary.  As  Patsy  opened  it,  a  photograph 
fell  from  the  torn  leaves.  Don  Luis  picked  it  up. 

"  Pobrecita!  "  he  showed  the  faded  photograph 
of  a  young  girl  in  the  dress  of  thirty  years  ago.  He 
turned  it  over  and  read  what  was  written  on  the 
back. 

"  Mi  Corazon!  " 

'  What  a  lovely  face!  "  said  Patsy. 

"  Too  lovely  to  be  sold  for  old  paper!  "  Don  Luis 
crushed  the  photograph  in  his  hand,  threw  it  on  the 
fire,  and  watched  it  burn  till  nothing  was  left  but 
blackened  cardboard. 

In  an  old  print  shop,  among  heaps  of  dusty  en- 
gravings, stood  a  picture  of  a  Roman  model  in  a 
ciociara  shirt.  The  canvas  had  a  hole  knocked  in 
it  and  lacked  a  frame. 

"  Manuel's  Rosina!  "  sighed  Don  Luis! 
"  Painted  the  second  year  we  were  at  the  Spanish 
Academy  in  Rome.  He  died  last  summer  and  all 
his  things  were  sold  for  his  widow!  " 

"  Come  away,"  I  cried,  "it  has  grown  cold!  " 


THE  PRADO  297 

On  our  way  from  the  Rastro  to  the  Tower  of 
Babel  we  passed  through  the  Pasaje  del  Alhambra. 
Villegas  and  J.  were  just  leaving  the  studio,  so  we 
all  walked  home  together.  It  was  the  hour  at 
which  the  old  General  and  his  wife  (the  couple  who 
always  watched  for  Villegas  as  he  passed  their  house 
on  his  way  to  and  from  his  work)  usually  started 
for  their  afternoon  drive.  The  proud  porter  stood 
at  the  gate  in  his  best  uniform,  with  all  the  Gen- 
eral's coats-of-arms  and  his  wife's  woven  into  the 
yellow  galloon  trimmings.  A  carriage  with  two 
men  in  livery  drove  up  to  the  door.  A  young 
woman  came  out  of  the  house,  followed  by 
three  flossy  white  poodles,  their  topknots  tied 
up  with  strawberry  and  buff,  —  the  General's 
colors. 

"  We  call  her  the  dog  governess,"  J.  explained. 

"  You  are  to  take  the  dogs  out,  Tomaso,"  she 
said;  "  nobody  will  drive  to-day.  They  are  both 
ill;  I  am  going  for  a  walk." 

Tomaso,  the  coachman  looked  exactly  like  the 
eldest  poodle;  he  glanced  scornfully  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  dogs  sitting  up  grandly,  with  their 
dear  little  paws  in  air.  Their  manners  showed  a 
martinet's  training.  The  governess  held  up  a 
warning  finger. 

"  Sit  up,  Prim,"  she  said.  Prim  gave  a  reassur- 
ing bark,  and  the  General's  carriage  drove  solemnly 


298      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

through  the  big  bronze  gates,  on  the  way  to  the  Park 
of  the  Buen  Retiro. 

"  How  horrible  to  have  to  drive  every  day!  " 
said  Patsy,  "  as  if  it  was  not  enough  to  have 
to  eat  and  sleep  away  so  much  time.  If  any- 
thing is  to  be  exercised,  rather  my  body  than  my 
horses!  " 

"  Se  sabe!  "  Villegas  agreed. 

"  The  General  was  well  till  he  was  put  on  the 
retired  list,"  said  Don  Luis.  "  People  say  he  is 
only  ill  because  he  is  idle." 

"  Moral,  don't  let  yourself  be  put  on  the  retired 
list,"  said  Patsy. 

"  What  a  great,  big,  beautiful  profession  is  art!  " 
cried  Villegas;  "  a  man  is  not  retired  till  he  goes 
blind  or  loses  his  wits!  Titian  was  at  work  on  a 
picture  when  he  died,  at  ninety-nine.  If  the  pest 
had  not  carried  him  off,  he  would  have  been  alive 
now,  is  it  thus  ?  " 

"  Claro  I  "  Don  Luis  agreed.  *  The  artist's  is 
the  only  calling  for  a  man  of  sense  and  imagination, 
except,  of  course,"  with  a  bow  to  Patsy,  "  the 
writer's." 

"  For  us,"  said  Patsy,  "  the  race-course  is  never 
closed.  Heat  after  heat  may  be  lost,  the  Great 
Futurity  Stakes  always  remain  open!  Don  Luis 
knows  his  picture  may  end  up  with  a  hole  knocked 
through  it  in  the  Rastro,  but  he  hopes,  in  his  heart 


THE  PRADO  299 

believes,  that  it  will  one  day  hang  in  the  Prado. 
And,  who  knows  ?  a  generation  or  two  from  novr, 
some  traveller  may  pick  up  my  book  in  Las 
Grandes  Americas  for  three  perros  chicosl  " 


XII 
CARNIVAL 

"fTlO-DAY  is   the  fiesta  of  San  Antonio  the 

X.  Abbot,"  said  Pedra,  when  she  came  in  to 
light  the  fire.  "  The  Seftora  should  go  to  see  the 
blessing  of  the  animals  at  his  church." 

Fasts,  feasts,  everything  connected  with  the 
Church  has  far  greater  importance  in  Madrid  than 
in  Rome.  One  gets  some  idea  here  of  what  the 
power  of  the  church  was  in  Italy  before  1870. 
Pedra,  who  was  very  devout,  never  let  me  forget 
a  saint's  day.  It  was  like  living  in  ancient  Rome, 
this  strict  observance  of  the  days  offest  and  nefest. 

"  Then  this  must  be  your  mother's  fiesta,  her 
name  is  Antonina,"  I  said. 

"  No,  Sefiora.  There  are  two  San  Antonios  and 
two  religions;  the  patron  of  my  mother  is  San 
Antonio  of  Padua,— see,  here  is  his  picture;  his 
fiesta  comes  in  June."  A  photograph  of  Murillo's 
Vision  of  Saint  Anthony  hung  on  the  wall. 

"  How  can  you  tell  the  difference  between  the 
two?" 


DETAIL    FROM    "MOSES."     J/nr/7/o 


CARNIVAL  301 

"  But  it  is  so  easy!  San  Antonio  the  Abbot  is  an 
old  man  with  a  beard ;  he  is  always  represented  with 
a  pig;  he  carries  a  bell.  It  is  said  that  whenever 
he  rings  his  bell  all  the  animals  kneel  down.  San 
Antonio  of  Padua  is  young,  and  has  no  beard.  It  is 
he  who  grants  so  many  favors.  To  him  I  burned 
the  candle  when  the  Senora  lost  her  brooch;  she 
found  it  the  day  after,  she  remembers." 

Don  Jaime,  old  pagan,  took  me  to  see  the  bless- 
ing of  the  animals.  He  brought  me  a  little  image 
of  the  saint  with  a  pig  following  at  his  heels,  as  a 
dog  follows. 

The  Abbot  was  very  wise,  Jaime  explained; 
he  knew,  good  man,  that  in  case  of  hunger,  pig  is 
better  eating  than  dog.  In  Madrid  people  are 
rather  indifferent  to  him.  All  the  Antonios  the 
Don  knew  claim  San  Antonio  of  Padua  for  patron 
because  he  is  more  aristocratic.  Only  the  peas- 
ants will  have  the  Abbot  for  their  patron,  be- 
cause he  takes  care  of  their  animals. 

As  we  drew  near  the  church,  we  met  a  great  num- 
ber of  horses,  mules  and  donkeys  on  their  way  to  be 
blessed.  A  white  horse  with  the  paso  castellano,  a 
beautiful  silky  mane  braided  with  bright  ribbons 
and  a  pretty  silk  head-stall,  was  so  exactly  like  the 
horse  the  young  dealer  from  Ronda  showed  at  the 
Seville  fair  that  I  half  believed  it  to  be  the  same 
animal.  The  man  who  led  him  wore  Andalusian 


302      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

dress,  and  a  carnation  behind  the  ear.  Man  and 
horse  picked  their  way  through  the  crowd  of 
loafers,  women,  children  and  sweetmeat-sellers, 
to  the  church.  A  priest  soon  came  out  followed  by 
an  acolyte  all  in  scarlet  like  an  embyro  cardinal, 
and  from  the  church  steps  the  priest  sprinkled  the 
horse  with  holy  water,  the  acolyte  swung  his  silver 
censer,  the  incense  rose  in  a  blue  cloud.  From 
a  side  window  a  sacristan  passed  the  young  man 
a  bag  of  fodder  that  had  been  blessed,  and  with  the 
payment  of  a  little  money,  the  ceremony  was  over. 

The  church  was  full  of  kneeling  people;  the 
altars  were  ablaze  with  candles.  I  wished  to  go  in 
to  see  the  Goya,  a  picture  of  the  Last  Communion 
of  Saint  Jerome. 

Don  Jaime  said  I  had  better  see  it  another  time; 
to-day  there  were  too  many  people.  There  was 
some  small-pox  about  —  not  enough  to  be  nervous 
over  —  but  to  avoid  contagion  it  was  well  to  keep 
out  of  the  churches.  If  there  is  a  desperately  sick 
child  in  the  house,  of  course  one  goes  continually 
from  the  bedside  of  the  child  to  the  church  and 
prays  for  its  recovery.  The  old  grandmother,  or 
the  little  children  who  can  do  nothing  to  help, 
can  at  least  spend  the  morning  in  the  church,  out 
of  harm's  way,  praying  for  it! 

At  dinner  Antonina,  a  fairy  of  five  who  lived 
next  door,  brought  in  a  plate  of  rosquitas  de  San 


CARNIVAL  303 

Antonio,  delicious  little  crisp  cakes  baked  only  this 
day  in  all  the  year.  Jaime,  who  had  come  in 
while  we  were  still  at  table,  ate  one  of  the  cakes  as 
a  reward  for  having  been  to  church. 

"  In  England,"  the  Don  remembered,  "  they 
eat  hot  cross  buns  on  Good  Friday  and  pancakes 
on  Shrove  Tuesday;  they  have  forgotten  the  ros- 
quitas  of  Saint  Anthony  and  the  tortas  of  San  Jose." 

On  the  nineteenth  of  March,  the  fiesta  of  San 
Jose  and  of  all  his  namesakes,  I  asked  Pedra  if  we 
should  have  one  of  the  tarts  of  St.  Joseph  for 
dinner. 

"  In  all  Madrid  there  is  no  house  so  poor  that 
the  torta  of  San  Jose  will  not  be  eaten  to-day. 
He  is  the  patron  of  the  church,  and  as  such  we  all 
must  venerate  him."  It  was  a  busy  day  for  Don 
Jose  Villegas;  a  flood  of  visitors,  cards,  letters, 
telegrams  and  presents  poured  through  the  Tower 
of  Babel  from  daylight  till  midnight.  He  sat  in  his 
study  busy  writing  notes  of  congratulation  and 
sending  despatches  to  all  the  other  Joses  of  his 
acquaintance.  I  looked  over  the  cards;  there  were 
the  names  of  statesmen,  artists,  poets,  singers, 
musicians  and  bull-fighters,  all  linked  together  into 
a  sort  of  fraternity,  because  they  bore  in  common 
the  name  of  good  Saint  Joseph. 

In  almost  every  circumstance  of  life  or  death, 
the  Church  plays  a  leading  part.  The  wife  of  a 


304      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

friend  of  Don  Jaime  died  while  we  were  in  Madrid, 
and  the  Don  arranged  that  I  should  see  the  funeral 
procession  and  one  of  the  many  services.  The 
cortege  was  headed  by  four  men  dressed  in  white 
broadcloth  short  clothes  and  Louis-Seize  coats, 
white  wigs,  silk  stockings  and  three  cornered  hats; 
each  carried  a  long  white  staff.  The  hearse  was  a 
gorgeous  white  affair,  drawn  by  four  white  horses 
with  sweeping  ostrich  plumes.  It  was  preceded 
and  followed  by  a  large  company  of  priests,  monks 
and  choristers  carrying  wax  candles  and  chanting 
a  miserere.  The  mourners  followed  on  foot.  More 
than  a  week  after  the  lady's  death  I  went  with  Jaime 
and  his  sister  Candalaria  to  the  house  of  mourning. 
In  the  private  chapel  we  listened  to  a  long  service 
lasting  over  an  hour.  The  chaplain  of  the  family 
officiated,  reciting  the  rosary,  the  litany  and  many 
prayers.  This  was  the  last  and  ninth  day  of  these 
services.  When  it  was  over,  I  went  home,  Don 
Jaime  and  Candalaria  remaining  behind  to  speak 
with  the  mourners.  Afterwards  they  told  me 
something  of  the  visit.  Candalaria  found  the  ladies 
of  the  family  in  one  room  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of 
women  friends  dressed  in  mourning. 

*  They  all  talked  at  once,"  said  Candalaria, 
"  saying  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again. 
'  Poor  soul !  So  young  to  die !  So  good,  so  devout ! 
What  will  her  husband  do  without  her  ?  '  " 


CARNIVAL  305 

The  Don  had  found  the  widower  in  another  room 
with  his  men  friends  about  him.  He  told  the  Don 
that  his  greatest  grief  was  that  his  wife  had  died 
suddenly,  without  having  time  to  make  a  con- 
fession or  receive  the  sacraments.  The  Don  won- 
dered what  possible  sin  she  could  have  had  on 
her  soul.  Everybody  said,  and  he  believed,  that 
the  dead  woman  was  very  nearly  a  saint. 

Candalaria  —  her  name  means  Candlemas  — 
is  a  Majorcan.  When  I  asked  Don  Jaime  to  tell  me 
something  about  the  island  of  Majorca  where  she 
lives,  he  said:  "In  Majorca  all  properties  is 
oranges.  It  has  a  fine  weather  as  well.'*  I  said  it 
must  be  a  pleasant  place  to  live. 

"  Candalaria  she  finds  it  so.  She  is  bery  clever, 
she  plays  piano  and  biolin."  Jaime  always  assumed 
b  and  v  to  be  interchangeable  in  English  as  they  so 
often  are  in  Spanish.  "  Her  husband  is  topo- 
graphic engineer.  Candalaria  helps  him  to  draw 
the  geographic  carts." 

Don  Jaime's  sister  is  married  to  an  officer  of  engi- 
neers; she  draws  so  nicely  that  she  often  helps  her 
husband  in  making  his  army  maps.  She  is  a 
small,  energetic  woman  with  consuming  eyes, 
fiery,  energetic,  practical,  everything  Don  Jaime  is 
not.  She  had  come  to  Madrid  to  see  her  brother 
and  the  carnival.  Jaime  introduced  us  to  her,  and 
during  her  stay,  we  were  often  together. 


306       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  In  your  country,  Senora,"  Candalaria  said 
when  we  first  met,  "  you  have  the  largest  of  every- 
thing of  the  world.  Is  it  rivers  ?  The  Mississippi. 
Is  it  a  cataract?  Niagara.  Is  it  mountains? 
The  Andes.  Your  fortunes  are  also  the  largest. 
Where  we  count  in  millions  of  reals,  you  count  in 
millions  of  duros." 

It  was  Candalaria  who  presented  me  to  Dona 
Emilia  Pardo  de  Bazan,  one  of  the  leading  Spanish 
novelists,  a  gray-haired  woman  with  a  powerful 
face.  Dona  Pardo  Bazan  spoke  with  me  about 
the  position  of  women  in  Spain. 

"  I  look  for  nothing  from  the  women  of  my 
country,"  she  said;  "  whatever  is  done  to  improve 
their  position  must  be  done  by  men.  Our  laws  are 
good.  Women  have  a  right  to  enter  some  of  the 
universities  and  some  of  the  professions,  but  they 
take  no  advantages  of  these  privileges.  It  is  the 
fear  of  ridicule  that  keeps  them  back." 

I  told  her  that  we  used  to  hear  a  great  deal  about 
the  fear  of  ridicule  in  the  old  days  at  home,  and 
that  it  had  been  proved  a  bugbear.  She  went  on 
to  say  that  she  had  been  asked  to  help  form  a 
woman's  club  and  had  refused;  she  knew  it  would 
be  of  no  use,  because  it  would  be  laughed  at. 

At  the  reception  where  I  met  Dona  Pardo  Bazan 
I  was  introduced  to  a  pretty  Marquesa  Fulano  and 
her  prettier  daughter.  '  Tell  me,"  I  said  to  the 


CARNIVAL  307 

Marquesa,  "  the  title  of  Dona  Pardo  Bazan's  most 
important  book." 

"  I  do  not  know  it,"  was  the  answer;  "  she  writes 
for  gentlemen,  not  for  ladies.  I  will  enquire,  if, 
among  the  many  books  she  has  written,  there  is  one 
that  you  could  read." 

Though  I  never  saw  the  Marquesa  again,  I 
read  La  Tribuna,  one  of  the  writer's  strongest 
novels,  and  I  know  the  Marquesa  and  I  should  not 
agree  about  what  books  a  woman  may  with  ad- 
vantage read.  I  know,  too,  that  everything  is  to 
be  looked  for  from  the  women  of  Spain,  for  whom 
Dona  Pardo  Bazan  —  I  have  heard  her  called  the 
foremost  literary  woman  in  Europe  —  has  done 
so  much. 

I  asked  Jaime  how  many  children  Candalaria 
had. 

"  Eleven,"  he  said;  "  that  gives  me  eleven  to 
remember  in  my  will.  To  whom  God  sends  no 
children,  the  devil  sends  nephews  and  nieces." 

The  carnival  Candalaria  had  timed  her  visit  for, 
was  well  worth  seeing.  It  was  a  famous  year  in 
Spain  for  pageants  of  all  sorts.  The  King's  en- 
gagement and  approaching  marriage  put  everybody 
in  a  good-natured,  money-spending  mood.  Great 
enthusiasm  was  expressed  for  what  was  always 
spoken  of  as  "  the  English  alliance."  Whenever 
the  King  gave  his  ministers  the  slip,  and  ran  off  in 


308      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

his  automobile  to  see  the  Princess  Ena  at  San 
Sebastian,  everybody  was  delighted. 

Carnival  began  the  Sunday  before  Ash  Wednes- 
day. The  chief  feature  was  a  parade  of  cars,  or 
floats,  competing  for  prizes  offered  by  the  munic- 
ipality. The  parade  took  place  in  the  splendid 
avenue  that,  under  various  names,  runs  through 
the  new  quarter  of  Madrid  from  north  to  south. 

Lucia,  Patsy  and  I  started  from  the  Tower  of 
Babel  soon  after  three  o'clock.  We  had  not 
driven  far,  when  we  caught  sight  of  Villegas  in  the 
crowd  at  the  corner. 

"  I  knew  he  was  dying  to  come  with  us  all  the 
time,"  murmured  Patsy;  "  in  spite  of  what  he 
said." 

"  Angoscia  disappointed  me;  they  are  all  mad;" 
sighed  Villegas,  as  he  climbed  into  the  carriage. 

"That  is  well,"  said  Lucia.  "Thou  hadst 
need  of  a  holiday;  thou  hast  not  taken  a  day  of 
repose  this  year." 

"  Though  the  premium  is  offered  for  the  best 
car,  the  best  car  will  not  get  the  premium,  thou 
wilt  see."  Jaime  called  to  Villegas  from  his  cab, 
following  at  a  foot-pace,  along  the  Castellana. 

"  Se  sabel  "  Villegas  agreed.  The  "  best  car  " 
came  creaking  towards  us,  a  vast  float  drawn  by 
four  gray  oxen  with  gilded  horns  and  gold- 
embroidered  head-dresses.  Two  Catalan  peasants 


DETAIL   FROM    "MOSES."     Murillo 


CARNIVAL  309 

walked  beside,  driving  the  oxen:  they  wore  wide 
sombreros,  and  bright  manias  folded  over  the 
shoulder.  The  car  was  an  excellent  representation 
of  the  House  of  Congress,  with  its  Greek  fa9ade, 
white  columns,  timpanum,  and  bronze  lions  on 
either  side  the  door.  Behind  the  columns  was  a 
brazen  pot  filled  with  men  dressed  as  locusts. 
The  car  was  greeted  with  roars  of  laughter  and 
applause. 

"  Thou  seest?  "  said  Jaime  to  Villegas.  "  The 
government  devours  the  country  like  locusts !  It  is 
true!  We  have  the  best  people  in  the  world,  and 
the  worst  government!  " 

"  Bravo!  El  Congreso!  "  yelled  the  people  in 
the  carriages.  "  Muy  bien! "  The  crowd  that 
lined  the  sidewalks  answered  with  cries  of  "  Mag- 
nifico!  Bravo!  El  carro  satiricol  " 

Jaime  was  right,  the  prize  was  not  awarded  to 
the  Congreso,  but  to  the  parrots.  A  mammoth 
cage  in  the  middle  of  a  float  with  a  big  sham 
parrot  hanging  on  a  ring  and  all  around  the  cage  a 
group  of  senoritas  and  caballeros  dressed  to  look  like 
parrots  with  green  velvet  coats,  gray  satin  vests, 
red  velvet  caps  and  big  beaks. 

"  It  almost  deserves  the  prize,  only  the  Congreso 
should  have  had  it  !"  said  Patsy. 

As  the  Government  appoints  the  judges,  that  was 
hardly  to  be  expected.  The  second  prize  was 


310      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

awarded  to  a  wagon-load  of  toy  soldiers  in  French 
uniform.  They  stood  stiff  as  wooden  dolls,  till 
you  looked  close  and  saw,  under  the  soldiers'  caps, 
the  faces  of  pretty  girls  and  laughing  lads. 

"  Seville,  the  Feria,  Concepcion!  "  cried  Patsy; 
"  this  is  magic !  " 

It  was  little  short  of  it.  On  the  float  coming 
towards  us  was  the  patio  of  an  Andalusian  house 
with  Moorish  columns  and  azulejos,  from  which  a 
maya  and  a  mayo  looked  out  on  the  crowd.  The 
mayawore  a  black  chenille  overdress  with  a  yellow 
satin  skirt  and  a  rose  in  her  hair  like  Concepcion. 

Down  the  middle  of  the  Paseo  de  la  Castellana, 
the  most  fashionable  part  of  the  route,  a  line  of 
gaily  decorated  tribunes  had  been  built;  these  were 
filled  with  well-dressed  people. 

"  That  is  the  tribune  of  La  Pena,  the  fashion- 
able club  in  the  Alcala,"  Patsy  said.  "  The  next 
is  the  Press  Club.  This  is  the  Artists'  Club,  and 
this  last  is  the  tribune  of  the  French  Colony." 

The  crowd  of  men,  women  and  children  in  the 
stands  were  armed  with  flowers,  huge  sacks  of  con- 
fetti, and  rolls  of  colored  paper  ribbons,  which 
unwind  when  they  are  thrown,  like  rockets  or  lassos. 
In  a  white  carriage  drawn  by  four  silver-gray 
mules  with  postilions  and  outriders,  sat  two  beauties 
dressed  in  silver.  Passing  in  the  other  direction 
was  a  car  with  a  representation  of  Carthage.  The 


CARNIVAL  311 

Carthaginians  were  splendidly  dressed.  As  car 
and  carriage  met,  a  pair  of  dark  Carthaginian 
men  lifted  a  bag  of  violet  confetti  and  poured  it 
down  on  the  white  carriage,  so  that  we  saw  the 
beauties  through  a  purple  haze.  The  effect  of  the 
changing  colors  was  dazzling.  Violet,  declared  at 
Paris  the  color  of  the  season,  predominated  over 
all  others. 

"  This,"  said  Patsy,  "  is  like  walking  through 
a  gallery  of  living  impressionist  pictures." 

"  Maestro!  Ay  Maestro! "  we  were  passing 
the  tribune  of  the  Artists'  Club,  when,  bifferty! 
a  long  yellow  streamer  coiled  about  Villegas*  neck 
and  flew  out  behind.  Soon  the  landeau  was  hung 
in  a  maze  of  paper  ribbons,  every  color  of  the  rain- 
bow, tangling  in  the  wheels,  wound  round  the 
hubs,  filling  the  carriage,  half  strangling  us.  A 
fine  victoria  with  a  harlequin  and  a  mask  in  pink 
satin,  stopped  close  to  us.  A  servant  was  sent  to 
our  carriage  and  presented  Lucia  with  a  pretty 
porcelaine  bonbonniere  of  caramels.  It  was  grow- 
ing late  and  people  began  to  be  hungry.  The 
flowers  were  exhausted;  chocolates  and  candies 
hailed  into  the  carriage.  In  the  cab  behind, 
Candelaria  unpacked  a  box  of  sandwiches,  a 
bottle  and  two  glasses. 

"  Un  poco  de  ginevra  de  campana?  "  said  Don 
Jaime,  offering  a  glass  to  Patsy. 


312      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  Luz,  Luz,  Luz!  "  The  cry  came  from  a  box 
of  caramels  filled  with  young  caballeros  done  up  like 
bonbons  in  pink  paper.  Luz,  lovely  as  daybreak, 
smiled  as  her  carriage  passed  the  caramels;  we 
saw  her  through  a  storm  of  rosy  confetti.  We 
drove  down  for  a  last  turn  to  the  end  of  the 
Castellana. 

The  sunset  was  pink,  gold  and  violet,  to  match 
the  prevailing  tone  of  the  carnival.  Against  the 
sky  the  Guaderramas  stood  out  boldly  with  the 
eternal  white  confetti  on  their  summits.  Our 
carriage  halted  by  the  statue  of  Isabel  the  Catholic, 
sitting  on  her  horse  between  her  good  and  her 
evil  genius,  Columbus  standing  at  her  bridle  and 
just  behind  her  the  cowled,  sinister  figure  of 
Torquemada. 

"  Don  Alfonzo!  "  The  young  King  in  his 
automobile  flew  by,  a  dent  in  his  bowler  hat,  his 
coat  covered  with  confetti.  He  threw  a  bunch  of 
roses  to  a  senorita  dressed  like  a  strawberry,  sitting 
in  a  basket  of  fruit,  the  other  strawberries  all 
answered  with  double  handful  of  pinkish  con- 
fetti, and  cries  of  "  muy  bien!  "  He  was  supposed 
to  be  incognito  and  was  throwing  flowers  and  con- 
fetti just  like  any  other  jolly  boy  of  nineteen.  Of 
course  everybody  recognized  him,  but  the  fiction  of 
the  incognito  was  strictly  respected,  which  seemed 
very  sensible.  It  must  be  supposed  that  he  needs 


CARNIVAL  313 

a  little  fun  for  his  soul's  sake,  like  the  rest  of  us. 
He  got  his  full  share  that  afternoon. 

Last  of  all  we  drove  through  the  Alcala,  Madrid's 
main  artery,  to  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  the  city's  mighty 
heart.  The  rest  of  Madrid  sometimes  sleeps  a 
little;  here  the  life  blood  pulses  ceaselessly  to 
and  fro. 

"  I  have  been  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol  at  every  hour 
of  the  twenty-four,"  said  Patsy,  "  and  I  have  never 
found  it  empty." 

The  streets  were  guarded  by  the  Ramonones, — 
mounted  police,  polite,  energetic,  keeping  an  order 
that  was  wonderful,  considering  the  vast  crowd, 
and  was  most  of  all  due  to  the  crowd's  desire  that 
order  should  be  kept. 

It  was  growing  dark,  the  electric  lamps  twinkled 
out  of  the  lavender  mist.  Just  ahead  of  us,  on  the 
prize-winning  car  of  the  parrots,  they  were  burning 
red  Bengal  lights.  At  the  corner  of  the  dark  street 
where  we  must  turn  to  reach  home,  a  fine  carriage, 
full  of  elegant  maskers,  passed  us.  A  Pierrot  in 
green  satin  stood  on  one  step  flirting  with  a  Turkish 
lady,  a  contrabandista  on  the  other  whispered  to  an 
Andaluz.  As  we  drove  by  in  our  modest  carriage, 
the  red  Bengal  lights  of  the  parrots  lit  up  Don 
Jose's  face.  From  the  grand  carriage  came  the 
cry: 

'  Villegas!  gloria  de  la  patrial  " 


314      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  They  are  all  mad!  "  said  Villegas;  "  vamosl 
it's  time  to  go  home." 

Ash  Wednesday  morning  the  streets  were  full  of 
sweepers  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  green,  pink  and 
red  papers,  the  trampled  debris  of  the  last  three 
days'  frolic.  We  met  Luz  coming  out  of  San 
Isidro  Real.  She  was  all  in  black,  wearing  the 
mantilla.  On  her  forehead  the  priest  had  traced  a 
cross  of  ashes.  The  church  was  filled  with 
fashionably  dressed  men  and  women,  many  of 
whom  we  had  seen  the  day  before  at  the  carnival. 
Each  came  out  into  the  sunlight  with  the  cross  of 
dust  and  ashes  on  the  forehead,  in  token  of  the 
day  of  mourning.  In  the  stable-yard  behind  the 
church  we  saw  the  ruins  of  the  second  prize  winner, 
the  toy  soldier  cart.  The  little  sentry  box  hung  in 
the  right  place,  the  stiff  green  trees,  the  dummy 
soldiers  in  their  smart  French  uniforms  stuck  up 
oddly  from  the  cart.  The  merry  group  of  live 
soldiers,  the  pretty  girls  and  saucy  boys  were 
scattered;  perhaps  some  of  them  were  in  the  church. 
As  we  stood  watching  the  wreck  of  the  prize 
winner,  men  began  to  take  the  car  to  pieces  and 
to  pull  off  the  remaining  decorations. 

"  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi,"  said  Patsy;  "  I'm 
for  the  Prado  and  glories  that  do  not  pass  so 
quickly." 


xin 

TOLEDO 

OUR  winter  in  Madrid  wore  pleasantly  away; 
we  basked  in  the  Sun  of  To-day,  gave  hardly 
a  thought  to  the  Shadow  of  Yesterday.  Fate 
wove  the  thread  of  our  existence  into  her  tapestry 
of  life  in  the  Spanish  capital  in  the  year  1906; 
a  many-toned  fabric  with  touches  of  gold  and 
silver,  sinister  crimson  and  sombre  black.  Now 
that  the  web  is  finished  and  hung  up  in  the  hall  of 
memory,  I  see  that  in  the  earlier  part  rose  color  is 
the  predominating  tone. 

"  It's  as  good  for  a  nation  as  it  is  for  a  person, 
after  they  have  been  in  mourning,  to  come  out  into 
the  world  again  and  take  an  interest  in  other 
people's  affairs,"  said  Patsy.  *  The  Conference, 
whatever  it  may  do  for  Morocco,  is  being  very  good 
for  Spain." 

The  two  absorbing  topics  of  conversation  were 
the  Algeciras  Conference  and  the  King's  marriage. 
From  our  friends  in  the  diplomatic  world  we 
heard  a  deal  of  talk  about  what  was  going  on  at 


316      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Algeciras,  where  the  representatives  of  thirteen 
Powers  were  discussing  the  vexed  questions  of  the 
State  Bank  of  Morocco  which  it  was  proposed  to 
establish  under  European  control,  the  policing  of 
the  unhappy  country  by  France  and  Spain,  the 
administration  of  customs,  and  the  various  reforms 
proposed  to  the  Sultan.  On  all  sides  we  heard 
compliments  for  our  representative,  Mr.  Henry 
White,  par  excellence  the  peacemaker  of  the 
Conference.  I  was  told  by  a  distinguished  diplo- 
mat that  Mr.  White's  exquisite  tact  and  good  feeling 
"  saved  the  situation  more  than  once."*  Besides 
keeping  the  peace,  the  American  delegate  put  in  a 
good  word  for  the  Jews,  asking  that  they  might 
have  religious  tolerance  in  Morocco.  His  plea  was 
seconded  by  Sir  Arthur  Nicholson,  the  English 
delegate,  and  the  Duke  of  Almodovar  who,  ignor- 
ing the  little  detail  of  the  expulsion  of  the  Jews 
from  Spain,  reminded  the  delegates  that  his  coun- 
try had  an  especial  interest  in  the  Hebrews  of 
Morocco,  who  still  spoke  the  Castilian  language, 
and  were  the  descendants  of  Spanish  Jews.  The 
English,  seconded  by  the  Americans,  made  a  plea 
for  the  gradual  abolition  of  slavery  in  Morocco, 
against  the  public  sale  of  men  and  women  in  the 
slave  markets  of  the  interior,  and  for  the  im- 

( *  Mr.  White's  good  offices  eventually  won  a  public  expression  of 
gratitude  from  the  head  of  the  German  Government.) 


TOLEDO  317 

provement  of  the  prisons.  It  was  pleasant  to  see 
England  and  the  United  States  aiding  and  abet- 
ting each  other  in  all  these  humane  efforts. 

The  Moroccan  delegate,  Sid  Hach  el  Mokri, 
Ancient  Inspector  of  Weights  and  Measures  at 
Fez,  and  his  colleague  did  little  but  protest  against 
the  reforms  the  Powers  proposed  to  institute  at 
the  expense  of  Morocco  and  under  the  direction  of 
the  Diplomatic  Corps  at  Tangiers.  Hach  el  Mokri 
cried  out  that  he  was  there  to  see  Morocco's  in- 
come increased,  not  decreased,  and  that  many  of 
the  proposed  reforms  had  not  been  included  in  the 
programme  of  the  Conference.  Patsy,  who  had 
seen  Sid  Mokri  and  made  an  excellent  photograph 
of  the  old  man  in  his  white  bournous,  with  his  long 
white  beard  and  piercing  eyes,  had  a  sneaking 
sympathy  for  him. 

"  After  all,  the  world  will  be  a  tame  place  when 
there  are  telephones  and  electric  cars  everywhere," 
he  said.  "  If  Morocco  does  not  want  to  be  civi- 
lized our  way,  or  any  other  way,  why  should  she 
be?"  The  Powers  are  cutting  and  carving  the 
revenues,  the  commerce,  the  future  of  that  unfor- 
tunate country  as  if  they  were  masters  of  the  situ- 
ation. They  are  a  long  way  from  it!  Before 
France  gets  the  little  Germany  means  to  let  her 
have,  she  must  pay  dear  for  it,  even  if  England 
stands  by  to  see  fair  play. 


318      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

I  had  a  sudden  vision  of  the  garden  in  Tangiers 
and  the  strange  old  man  who  had  talked  with  me 
of  Moroccan  affairs.  I  seemed  to  hear  his  brood- 
ing voice  utter,  as  if  in  prophecy,  "  Keep  your  ear 
to  the  ground;  the  end  of  Islam  is  not  yet!  " 

Our  Spanish  friends  were  naturally  even  more 
interested  in  Don  Alfonzo's  affairs  than  in  those  of 
the  Sultan  of  Morocco.  It  was  wonderful  how  the 
courtship  of  one  pair  of  lovers  made  a  whole  nation 
in  love  with  life!  There  was  a  delicate  thrill  of 
expectation  in  the  air.  Spain  drank  deep  of  the 
three  great  cordials,  youth,  hope  and  love,  forgot 
the  old  pain  in  the  new  rapture.  Every  detail  of 
the  King's  wooing  was  eagerly  discussed.  The 
news  that  the  Princess  Ena  had  been  received  into 
the  Church  of  Rome  and  renounced  the  errors  of 
the  Protestant  faith  was  a  "  world  event.'*  Her 
decision  to  take  the  names,  Victoria  Eugenie,  gave 
great  satisfaction.  It  was  rumored  that  the  Em- 
press Eugenie  had  given  her  a  wedding  present  of 
a  million  pesetas,  and  would  make  the  future 
Queen  of  Spain  her  heir.  Older  people  recalled 
the  poor  young  Prince  Imperial's  early  attachment 
to  Princess  Beatrice,  Princess  Ena's  mother. 

"  The  Empress  was  a  Spaniard,"  Candalaria 
reminded  me;  "  a  Montijo  of  Malaga.  My  parents 
knew  the  family.  It  is  quite  natural  she  should 
wish  her  money  to  come  back  to  Spain.  My 


TOLEDO  319 

father  was  at  the  funeral  of  her  son,  the  Prince 
Imperial.  He  saw  the  great  English  Queen, 
Victoria,  and  her  daughter,  Princess  Beatrice, 
when  they  drove  over  to  Chiselhurst  to  lay  a  golden 
laurel  wreath  on  the  coffin  of  the  young  Prince 
Napoleon  IV,  as  they  called  him,  killed  in  the  Zulu 
war,  fighting  for  the  English." 

We  had  all  become  so  absorbed  in  the  pleasant 
social  life  of  Madrid,  so  taken  up  with  current 
matters  of  public  and  private  interest,  that  the 
many  journeys  we  had  planned  were  put  off  and 
put  off.  Had  it  not  been  for  a  chance  question  of 
Patsy's,  we  might  never  even  have  seen  Toledo, 
we  were  living  —  except  for  those  golden  hours 
in  the  Prado  —  so  completely  in  To-day.  One 
brilliant  March  afternoon  Don  Jaime  greeted  me 
at  the  door  of  the  Museum  with  his  cheery  "  Good 
day,  Missis."  The  Don  liked  to  go  with  us  to  the 
Prado;  he  was  interested  in  Patsy's  art  education 
and,  if  neither  Villegas  nor  Don  Luis  were  present, 
would  hold  forth  on  the  merits  of  the  pictures. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Don,"  said  Patsy;  "what's 
the  news  ?  " 

"  There  are  very  few  news.  You  receive  some 
lollipops  ?  "  The  Don's  intercourse  with  English- 
speaking  people,  broken  off  when  he  left  school, 
led  him  to  suppose  that  to  be  happy  they  must 
be  continually  fed  with  lollipops. 


320      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  Nuns  of  Concepcion  Convent  has  secret  of 
preparing  those  sweets,  same  like  Benedictines' 
liquor  secret." 

Knowing  his  poverty,  I  was  troubled  by  the  little 
presents  he  was  forever  making  one  or  other  of  us, 
of  which  Patsy's  lollipops  were  an  exa  nple. 

"  It's  his  way  of  keeping  his  end  up,"  Patsy 
maintained.  *  The  Don  expects  to  die  rich,  to 
leave  his  family  rolling  in  money.  He  has  an  in- 
vention for  a  flying  machine  half  worked  out.  On 
his  paternal  heredad  —  a  piece  of  waste  land  <  in  the 
Sierra  Rondina  —  there's  a  rich  iron  mine,  and  a 
spring  of  sparkling  mineral  water,  better,  he  says, 
than  apollinaris.  The  joke  of  it  all  is,  I  believe 
what  he  says  is  perfectly  true.  He  will  never 
'  realize '  on  spring  or  mine,  though  perhaps 
Candalaria's  eleven  may!  " 

"  You  look  festive  this  morning,  Don;  where 
did  that  sporty  rose  come  from  ?  "  Patsy  asked. 
The  Don  always  had  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole, 
though  he  often  had  not  a  dollar  in  his  pocket. 

"  It  is  monthly  roses,"  said  the  Don,  settling  the 
bud  in  his  coat;  "  they  give  every  moon.  Let  us 
now  to  the  parlor  of  the  great  Velasquez." 

We  always  began  with  the  Velasquez  room, 
studying  some  one  picture,  and  passing  the  rest 
in  review.  Don  Jaime  professed  great  admiration 
the  portrait  of  the  Fool  of  Coria,  one  of  the 


TOLEDO  321 

hombres  de  placer  —  literally,  men  of  pleasure  — 
of  the  court.  The  fool  is  seated  on  a  stone,  with  a 
gourd  on  either  side;  his  hands  rest  idly  on  his 
knee.  It  is  a  wonderfully  pathetic  picture,  with  a 
heartache  in  it  for  those  who  have  some  knowledge 
of  those  weakest  of  our  brothers,  the  feeble-minded. 

"  How  dreary  Philip's  court  must  have  been," 
sighed  Patsy,  "  if  that  pitiful  creature  could  add  to 
its  gaiety." 

"  CZaro,"  said  Don  Jaime,  "  but,  Canastos!  It 
is  a  most  fine  portrait.  Look  again,  you  will  see 
in  the  face  the  idiotness  of  that  man." 

Canastos,  baskets,  was  the  Don's  favorite  oath; 
it  was  the  only  exclamation  of  impatience  either 
he  or  Candalaria  had  ever  heard  their  mother  use. 
That  morning  the  Don  insisted  on  our  looking  more 
carefully  at  Ribera's  pictures  than  suited  Patsy. 
The  Don  himself  felt  little  sympathy  with  them, 
but,  as  a  Spaniard,  it  was  his  duty  to  interest  us 
in  all  the  well-known  painters  of  the  Spanish 
school.  Ribera  —  we  knew  him  better  by  his 
Italian  nickname,  Spagnoletto,  little  Spaniard  — 
the  Don  said,  painted  for  the  Church.  He  was  in 
no  sense  a  court  painter,  was  probably  prejudiced 
against  all  court  people  on  account  of  Don  John  of 
Austria's  unhandsome  treatment  of  his  daughter 
in  their  unfortunate  love  affair.  The  Church  at 
that  time  was  under  the  sway  of  the  Inquisition, 


322      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

where  we  must  lay  the  blame,  if  the  Ribera  room 
was,  as  Patsy  insisted,  a  little  like  the  chamber  of 
horrors. 

'  This  painter,"  said  Don  Jaime,  "  lived  in  one 
epoca  of  inquisition  and  hell  influences.  In  all  his 
paintings  are  seen  foreheads  full  of  wrinkles  for 
pain,  eyes  terrified  by  the  fear,  and  naked  flesh 
teared,  or  sullen  martyrs,  saints  and  gloomy 
friars." 

"  Why  couldn't  he  always  paint  like  that  ?  " 
said  Patsy,  pausing  before  a  fine  poetic  Magdalen. 
"  The  drawing  is  as  good,  the  modelling  as  astonish- 
ing, the  color  as  rich  as  in  those  morbid  cruel 
pictures.  The  mission  of  art  is  to  inspire,  not  to 
terrify;  you  can  never  make  me  like  Ribera,  Don." 

The  Don  himself  was  more  depressed  than  any 
of  us  by  what  he  had  seen.  He  mopped  his  bald 
ivory  poll  with  his  silk  handkerchief  —  it  was 
scented  with  orris  —  and  sighed  as  we  left  the 
room: 

"  Everything  it  is  so  truthful,  so  to  make  fear, 
that  everybody  feel  a  relief,  a  joy  of  living,  when  he 
is  gone  from  that  parlor." 

"  Now  let's  go  and  play  with  the  Venetians,  as  a 
reward  of  merit,"  said  Patsy.  "  I  have  not  seen 
those  lovely  Titians  for  a  week."  Patsy's  beloved 
Venetians  can  be  studied  better  in  the  Prado  than 
anywhere  outside  of  Venice.  The  Don,  filled  with 


TOLEDO  323 

a  sudden  access  of  zeal  for  the  Spanish  school, 
would  not  let  us  go  until  we  had  given  some  time 
to  the  work  of  El  Greco. 

"  Here  are  seven  paintings  of  the  lifes  of  saints 
by  El  Greco,"  he  said.  "  Every  one  so  thin  and 
transparent  and  of  so  greenish  tones  that  they  looks 
more  than  saints,  like  spirits  who  took  the  human 
form,  notwithstanding  they  keep  their  impalpables. 
The  intelligent  people  say  that  in  this  consist  the 
worth  of  this  painter,  because  he  translated  on  the 
cloth  the  asceticismo  of  his  epoca." 

"  You  will  never  convince  me  that  Greco  is  one 
of  the  world's  great  painters,  however  important 
he  may  have  been  to  the  development  of  the 
Spanish  school,"  said  Patsy.  "  A  man  who  paints 
people  eight  feet  high,  who  makes  his  angels  goblins, 
his  saints  lunatics, is  not  sane;  and  without  sanity 
there  can  be  no  great  art." 

"  You  must  go  to  Toledo,"  said  Don  Luis,  who 
had  joined  us,  "  before  you  can  judge  El  Greco. 
You  see  his  sacred  pictures  at  a  great  disadvantage 
in  a  museum.  They  need  the  dim  religious  light 
of  the  churches  or  monasteries,  for  which  they  were 
painted.  Only  the  portraits  look  well  here;  those, 
you  must  admit,  are  among  the  great  portraits  of 
the  world." 

Patsy  was  not  quite  ready  to  agree  to  this  yet, 
Don  Jaime  meanwhile  acknowledged  that  fashion 


324      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

in  art  is  as  capricious  as  it  is  in  dress ;  perhaps  the 
people  who  have  made  El  Greco  the  fashion,  not  to 
say  the  rage  of  the  moment,  claimed  too  much  for 
him.  In  spite  of  this,  like  Don  Luis,  Jaime  con- 
sidered El  Greco  among  the  first  of  portrait 
painters. 

"  Speaking  of  fashion  in  dress,"  said  Patsy, 
stopping  before  an  anonymous  portrait  of  a  lady 
in  a  yellow  turban,  "  at  what  period  did  they  wear 
that  extraordinary  headgear  ?  " 

"  It  must  have  been  in  the  time  of  King  Wamba," 
laughed  Don  Luis,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  before  the 
flood." 

The  name  of  King  Wamba  was  like  the  kiss  of 
the  faithful  hound  on  the  cheek  of  the  enchanted 
prince.  Patsy  awoke  from  the  enchantment  of 
To-day  and  remembered  Yesterday,  remembered 
Wamba  and  Wamba's  capital,  Toledo,  remem- 
bered that  all  the  records  of  that  wonderful  life  of 
many  yesterdays  we  call  history  was  waiting  for 
him  to  read,  not  three  hours  away  from  Madrid. 

"  I  would  not  go  to  Toledo  for  the  sake  of  El 
Greco,"  Patsy  declared,  "  but  for  King  Wamba's 
sake,  and  to  buy  a  Toledo  blade,  I  would  go  twice 
as  far!" 

So  our  trip  to  Toledo  —  one  of  the  best  of  our 
Spanish  adventures  —  came  about.  We  cancelled 
all  engagements,  gave  up  seats  for  the  opera,  and 


TOLEDO  325 

the  very  next  day  started  with  little  Don  Luis  for 
Toledo.  The  train  took  us  past  a  small  hillock,  on 
which  stands  a  church  marking  the  exact  geo- 
graphical centre  of  Spain.  Toledo  is  a  walled 
town,  built,  like  Rome,  on  seven  hills.  It  stands 
high  above  the  plain,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by 
the  Tagus,  a  rushing  yellow  river  (Martial  says  its 
sands  are  of  gold)  that  girdles  the  city,  and  keeps  the 
vega  around  it  a  lovely  green  oasis  in  the  arid 
Castilian  plain.  The  road  from  the  station  passes 
through  a  rocky  gorge  and  leads  to  the  imposing 
bridge  of  Alcantara.  From  here  the  view  of  the 
stern  fortress  city  is  superb.  We  drove  round 
the  walls  (Wamba's  walls)  and  saw  the  towers,  the 
splendid  gates,  with  the  portcullis  in  more  than  one 
still  perfect;  and  finally  climbed  the  height,  to  the 
commanding  ruin  of  the  Alcazar. 

The  hill  of  the  Alcazar  dominates  Toledo,  as  the 
Acropolis  dominates  Athens.  The  Alcazar  is  an 
immense  square  building,  with  four  towers  sur- 
mounted by  pointed  roofs.  Time,  the  supreme 
colorist,  has  laid  on  his  matchless  glazes  of  sun  and 
shadow;  the  darker  parts  are  rich  saffron,  the  light- 
est, mellow  gold.  Seen  from  the  distance,  it  is  a 
broad  imposing  mass,  simple,  strong,  overpowering 
all  other  architectural  features  of  the  city  by  its 
size  and  its  situation.  When  you  enter  the  splendid 
ruin,  and  stand  in  the  patio  with  its  fine  double 


326      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

arcade  of  Corinthian  columns,  you  are  reminded 
of  the  courtyard  of  the  Farnese  palace  in  Rome, 
designed  by  Michaelangelo. 

"  If  we  could  know  the  history  of  this  old  ruin,*' 
said  Patsy,  "  we  should  know  the  history  of  Toledo. 
Here,  where  we  stand,  on  the  very  highest  point  of 
this  granite  rock,  the  Romans  built  their  castellum. 
From  its  ruins  rose  the  Visigoths'  citadel,  and,  still 
later,  the  Moors'  Alcazar!  The  word  means  the 
palace  of  Caesar:  that  shows  the  Moors  did  not 
forget!  Kaiser  means  Caesar,  too;  how  many 
other  things  did  the  great  Julius  give  his  name  to  ? 
I  wonder.  Think  of  the  people  who  have  lived 
between  these  four  walls,  and  have  looked  out  upon 
this  glorious  view!  The  Cid,  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bel, Charles  V  and  Philip  II,  just  to  mention  a 
few  stars." 

As  in  some  families  the  youngest  child  who  can 
speak  "  asks  the  blessing,"  it  fell  to  Patsy,  youngest 
and  most  ardent  of  the  party,  to  impart  all  inevitable 
information.  The  plan  worked  well,  in  spite  of 
J/s  occasional  restive  "Use  your  eyes!  "  It  was 
never  necessary  to  tell  him  what  to  look  at. 

"  That,"  said  Patsy,  map  in  hand,  pointing  to 
the  lower  levels  of  the  town,  "  is  the  Bridge  of 
Alcantara,  literally  the  bridge  of  the  bridge." 

The  great  bridge  leaps  boldly  across  the  river, 
supported  by  one  large  and  one  small  arch.  There 


0 

a 
w 

- 
c 

'r- 


TOLEDO  327 

is  a  rugged  watch-tower  on  the  Toledo  side;  the 
tower  that  for  so  many  centuries  stood  opposite  has 
disappeared. 

'  The  Bridge  of  San  Martin  is  on  the  other  side 
of  the  town.  When  you  cross  it,  please  cry  out, 
*  My  eye,  Betty  Martin/ —  Yankee  for  mihi  Beato 
MartinOy  to  me  blessed  Martin,  an  old  crusading 
war  cry  heard  in  Toledo  before.  The  walls  of 
Wamba  extend  from  the  Bridge  of  Alcantara  to  the 
Bridge  of  San  Martin.  The  river  runs  round  three 
sides  of  the  city;  the  walls  on  the  fourth  make  it 
impregnable.'* 

*  We  may  as  well  have  Wamba's  story  now;  we 
shall  have  to  hear  it  some  time,"  sighed  J.  "  I 
want  to  sketch  the  bridge  from  here.  Fire  away, 
boy!  "  Patsy,  loaded  and  primed  with  information, 
fired. 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell !  I  always  liked 
Wamba  because,  for  a  long  time,  I  confused  him 
with  Wamba,  son  of  Witless  the  Jester,  in  Ivan- 
hoe,"  Patsy  confessed. 

"  That's  the  way  he  always  begins  his  longest 
yarns,"  J.  groaned. 

According  to  Patsy's  yarn,  this  real  Wamba  was 
the  last  of  the  great  Gothic  kings,  who,  in  spite  of 
the  tricks  of  his  enemies,  the  churchmen,  has  left 
his  mark  on  Toledo  and  on  Spain.  Wamba  was 
an  old  soldier  who  lived  just  at  the  time  when  the 


328      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Gothic  power  was  on  the  wane,  and  Rome,  for  a  sec- 
ond time,  was  becoming  mistress  of  Spain.  When 
the  Gothic  nobles  elected  him  King,  Wamba  at 
first  refused  the  throne.  Then  they  gave  him  his 
choice  of  death  or  kingship,and  he  was  finally  forced 
to  accept.  He  taught  his  people  what  they  had 
almost  forgotten,  *  to  fight  the  good  fight ';  in  his 
time  there  was  a  last  flicker  of  the  old  Gothic  spirit. 
But  Wamba  was  too  free  and  independent  to  suit 
the  churchmen,  and  they  contrived  to  give  him  a 
sleeping  draught  that  threw  him  into  so  deep  a 
trance  that  his  followers  thought  the  King  was 
dead.  He  was  prepared  for  burial,  as  is  still  the 
fashion  for  great  personages,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
monk,  and  a  tonsure  was  shaved  on  his  head. 
When  he  came  to  himself,  the  churchmen  main- 
tained that  a  man  who  had  worn  the  dress  and  the 
tonsure  of  a  monk  could  never  again  reign  as  King. 
So,  having  reigned  against  his  will,  wisely  and  too 
well,  he  was  forced  to  abdicate  against  his  will, 
and  retire  to  a  monastery  where  he  ended  his  days. 
Staunch  old  fellow  that  he  was,  the  Church  was 
too  strong  for  him,  as  it  has  been  for  most  political 
reformers  from  that  day  to  this. 

The  Visigoths  laid  hold  upon  our  imagination  at 
Toledo  as  the  Romans  had  at  Italica,  and  the 
Moors  at  Cordova.  Those  fair  northmen  came  to 
Spain  when  Rome  had  grown  old  and  feeble,  her 


TOLEDO  329 

iron  hand  relaxed.  The  Romans  had  come  as 
conquerors,  carrying  the  eagles  through  Spain. 
They  marched  rapidly;  twenty  miles  a  day  was 
their  average.  They  smote  Spain  —  Iberia  they 
called  it  —  hard,  and  left  their  imperishable  mark 
upon  her.  The  coming  of  the  Visigoths  was  more 
a  vast  migration  than  a  conquest.  They  moved 
slowly,  wandered  rather  than  marched,  encum- 
bered with  women  and  children,  flocks  and  herds. 
They  wandered  over  Europe,  crossed  the  Pyrenees 
and  settled  the  Peninsula.  The  impress  they  have 
left  on  Spain  is  as  different  from  the  Roman  as  their 
coming  differed  from  the  triumphal  progress  of  the 
Romans. 

"  It  is  not  so  easy  to  find  traces  of  the  Visigoths 
in  Spain  as  of  the  Roman  or  the  Moor,"  little  Don 
Luis  had  assured  us. 

"  That  is  a  pity,*'  was  Patsy's  answer,  "  for  the 
Visigoths  were  the  nicest  people  who  ever  came  to 
Spain!  " 

They  have  not  left  so  strong  a  mark  on  things 
material  as  Roman  or  Arab;  they  seem  never  to 
have  held  the  land  as  firmly.  Was  it  because  they 
brought  their  wives  with  them,  and  neglected  the 
dark-eyed  Iberian  women,  skillful,  like  the  dancing 
girls  of  Gades,  in  the  dance  with  the  castanets  ? 
To  find  traces  of  the  Gothic  occupation  do  not  look 
for  vast  ruins  of  temple,  circus,  aqueduct  or  bridge. 


330       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

A  few  capitals  in  the  Mosque  of  Cordova,  the  bas- 
relief  of  a  hunting  scene  in  the  Museum,  the  city 
walls  and  the  ruins  of  the  palace  of  Wamba  at 
Toledo  —  we  saw  little  else  to  remind  us  of  the 
Gothic  rule  in  Spain,  as  far  as  material  things  go. 
The  crown  of  King  Swinthila  at  Madrid  was  the 
most  impressive  relic  of  the  Visigoths  we  saw. 
It  is  of  gold,  surrounded  by  rosettes  of  pearls  and 
sapphires,  in  a  delicate  red  paste  cloisonne  setting. 

The  Visigoths'  legacy  to  Spain  was  immaterial 
and  immortal.  Search  for  traces  of  the  blue-eyed 
northmen,  and  you  will  find  ideals  that  still  survive 
in  the  Spaniards'  deep  inborn  sense  of  the  equality 
of  all  men  (at  least  of  all  Spaniards),  and  in  the 
Spanish  woman's  honesty.  The  Visigoths  treated 
their  wives  as  their  equals,  expected  them  to  do 
their  share  of  fighting  the  enemy  and  of  providing 
food  for  the  family,  gave  them  control  of  their  own 
property,  and  a  right  to  half  the  common  house- 
hold stock.  They  only  obeyed  their  King  so  long 
as  they  approved  of  him.  "  King  shalt  thou  be  as 
long  as  thou  dost  right.  If  thou  dost  not  right,  no 
King  shalt  thou  be." 

The  influence  of  this  immortal  spiritual  gift, 
these  ideals  of  the  independence  of  the  individual 
and  the  equality  of  the  wife  with  the  husband, 
survive  to-day  in  the  temper  of  the  modern  Span- 
iard. I  found  them  in  Pedra's  mother,  Antonina, 


TOLEDO  331 

the  washerwoman  who  so  frankly  shook  hands 
with  me  on  our  first  meeting;  in  the  fact  that  in 
Spain  to-day  no  man  may  leave  more  than  half 
his  fortune  away  from  his  wife;  that  the  Grandee 
is  free  to  wear  his  hat  in  the  presence  of  the  King, 
his  wife  to  sit  in  the  presence  of  the  Queen.  The 
legacy  of  the  Goth  survives  in  the  ideals  and  the 
virtues  of  the  race.  The  Spaniard  has  the  virtues 
of  the  north  as  well  as  the  ideals;  he  is  truthful, 
honest,  clean  and,  above  all,  he  is  independent. 

The  sketches  were  nearly  done;  we  all  had 
settled  into  silence,  and  worked,  or  dreamed  half 
the  morning  away,  looking  out  across  that  green 
vega  or  down  at  the  old  Moorish  mills,  far  below  in 
the  Tagus,  until  Patsy,  whose  sketch  was  finished 
first,  declared  he  could  not  live  another  hour  unless 
he  was  possessor  of  a  Toledo  blade.  Wandering 
in  search  of  one,  down  into  the  lower  part  of  the 
town,  we  soon  lost  ourselves  in  a  labyrinth  of  nar- 
row winding  streets  with  high  Oriental  looking 
houses.  At  every  corner  we  were  brought  to  a 
standstill  by  some  picturesque  doorway,  church 
or  tower.  These  straight  curving  lanes,  with 
scarcely  one  open  square  or  space,  must  make 
Toledo  a  comfortable  summer  city.  One  has  but 
to  pass  July  in  the  modern  quarter  of  Rome  to 
know  the  folly  of  laying  out  a  southern  city  with 
wide  avenues  and  open  squares,  because  they  have 


332      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

proved  comfortable  and  suitable  for  Paris  or  Lon- 
don. Every  town  has  to  reckon  either  with  heat  or 
cold  as  its  chief  enemy.  Where  heat  is  the  more  to 
be  feared,  as  in  Toledo  or  Rome,  narrow  streets 
with  tall  houses,  where  the  shadows  lie  cool,  are 
the  best. 

"  Do  you  believe,"  asked  Patsy,  "  that  I  shall 
find  a  blade  *  with  so  fine  a  temper  that  it  can  be 
curled  up  like  the  mainspring  of  a  watch  ?  ' 

Don  Luis  would  not  promise,  but  he  guided  us  to 
the  shop  where  we  could  buy  the  best  wares  for  our 
money.  The  dealer  welcomed  us  and  invited  us  to 
examine  his  stock  of  swords,  daggers,  cuchillos, 
long  pointed  knives,  navajas,  clasp  knives,  and 
punalicos,  little  deadly  knives  worn  in  the  garter: 
one  bore  the  motto,  "  I  serve  a  lady." 

Patsy  had  little  money  to  spend;  the  edge 
of  his  enjoyment  in  spending  it  was  keen  as 
the  blades  he  turned  over  so  carefully.  We 
were  the  only  customers;  the  dealer  seemed  in 
no  hurry,  the  shop  —  cool,  comfortable  and  smell- 
ing of  fresh  mint  —  was  a  pleasant  ptace.  The 
sunlight,  streaming  through  the  windows,  glinted 
on  the  weapons.  Patsy  handled  the  deadly  things 
as  skillfully  as  he  had  handled  the  scythe  at  Seville 
Fair.  The  dreadful  inherited  knowledge  of  killing 
was  in  his  fingers;  that  strong,  nervous  hand  could, 
if  need  be,  use  that  rapier  as  it  could  use  the  scythe. 


TOLEDO  333 

"How much  for  this  dagger?  "  Patsy  asked  at  last. 

The  dealer  named  a  moderate  price  for  the 
beautiful  weapon.  The  handle  and  sheath  were  of 
iron,  finely  damascened  with  gold.  The  blade, 
sharp  and  flexible,  as  the  dealer  proved  by  bending 
it  double,  was  of  shining  steel,  a  "  Toledo  trusty  " 
such  as  Mercutio  says  a  soldier  dreams  of.  Patsy 
read  the  motto  on  the  hilt;  "  Who  lacks  courage 
need  place  no  faith  in  me!  " 

"  Do  you  realize,"  he  said,  "  that  since  the  days 
of  the  Romans  these  Toledo  blades  *  with  the  ice- 
brook's  temper '  have  been  the  most  famous 
weapons  in  the  world  ?  "  Then,  in  spite  of  my 
murmured,  "  Whatever  will  you  do  with  it,"  he 
offered  half  the  price  that  had  been  asked.  We 
had  done  little  shopping  in  Spain,  and  had  come 
from  a  long  stay  in  a  land  where  the  same  article 
has  many  prices.  The  dealer  stroked  his  pointed 
beard  with  a  white  well-kept  hand,  as  if  to  hide  the 
chilly  smile  that  curved  his  thin  lips,  and  politely 
repeated  his  price.  Though  he  was  willing  to  show 
his  wares,  he  did  not  seem  anxious  to  sell  them. 

"  I  had  forgotten  we  were  in  Spain,"  mur- 
mured the  crestfallen  Patsy;  "  in  Toledo,  the 
*  Heart  of  Spain!"  Without  more  ado  he  bought 
the  dagger  and  a  lady's  pocketknife  with  two  sharp 
blades. 

While   the   trade   was   making,   I   studied   the 


334      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

tradesman.  He  might  have  been  descended  from 
one  of  the  Toledan  hidalgos,  immortalized  by  El 
Greco's  portraits.  He  had  a  thin  nervous  face, 
with  great  hollow  eyes  and  a  large  sharp-cut  nose. 
We  got  to  know  the  type  well  before  we  left  Toledo, 
for  the  citizens  are  of  a  distinct  type.  Just  as  in 
Seville  we  were  always  meeting  Murillo  Madon- 
nas walking  about  the  streets,  and  in  Madrid 
Velasquez  portraits,  in  Toledo  we  were  continually 
meeting  the  hidalgos  of  El  Greco. 

From  the  shop  where  weapons  are  sold,  we  went 
to  the  Military  Academy  where  soldiers  are  made. 
The  cadets  were  just  coming  out  from  recitation 
as  we  looked  into  the  courtyard  to  see  the  fountain 
cast  from  captured  guns.  They  were  gallant 
looking  lads,  full  of  pranks  and  tricks,  as  they 
streamed  down  the  long  staircase  into  the  patio 
and  out  into  the  calle,  past  the  wonderful  carved 
stone  doorway  of  the  Hospital  Santa  Cruz.  Don 
Luis  sent  in  a  message  begging  that  a  certain  young 
cadet,  Candalaria's  son,  might  have  leave  of 
absence  to  lunch  with  us.  Leave  was  granted, 
and  the  cadet,  his  name  was  Pepe,  as  smart  a 
young  blade  as  you  could  see,  escorted  us  through 
the  confusing  labyrinth  of  narrow  calles  that  lay 
between  the  Military  Academy  and  our  hotel. 
Pepe  was  well  known  at  the  hotel;  after  his  visit 
we  were  even  better  treated  than  before. 


TOLEDO  335 

"  What  is  best  worth  seeing  in  Toledo,  after  the 
Academy  ?  "  Patsy  asked. 

"  The  Fabrica  de  Espadas,  where  your  dagger 
was  made,"  said  Pepe  promptly.  So  after  lunch 
J.  and  Patsy,  escorted  by  Pepe,  went  off  to  the 
Weapon  Factory,  leaving  Don  Luis  and  me  to  run 
lightly  over  "  the  chief  attractions." 

"  Look  up  my  brother,  Gregorio,"  Pepe  flung 
back  over  his  shoulder,  as  they  swung  off  together. 
"  He  is  free  this  afternoon;  he  knows  all  about 
churches  and  museums,  if  you  care  for  such  dull 
things." 

"  Yes,"  said  Don  Luis,  "  we  will  look  up  Greg- 
orio. He  knows  a  good  deal  about  Toledo." 

Gregorio,  Candalaria's  eldest  son,  was  unlike 
any  other  member  of  that  interesting  family.  He 
was  small  and  fragile,  with  piercing  brown  eyes. 
He  came,  rather  unwillingly,  to  show  us  the 
cathedral. 

"  Gregorio  wished  to  go  into  the  Church,"  Don 
Luis  told  us.  "  His  father  and  Candalaria  did 
not  like  the  idea.  They  never  opposed  the  boy, 
but  sent  him  to  Toledo  to  spend  a  year  with  a 
priest  cousin,  who  is  the  greatest  bore  in  the  family; 
the  plan  was  that  old  fox  Jaime's,  it's  working 
out  well.  From  what  Pepe  says,  Gregorio  is  not 
so  bent  on  taking  orders  now  as  he  once  was." 

Gregorio  took  us  to  the  cathedral,  a  fine  building, 


336       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

so  hemmed  about  by  smaller  ones  that  we  could  get 
no  view  of  the  whole.  The  exterior  of  a  stone 
originally  white,  is  now  tanned  by  sun  and  weather 
to  a  delicious  mellow  tone.  The  ruddy  tower 
faintly  recalls  that  greater  glory,  the  Giralda. 
Some  parts  of  the  cathedral  are  in  severe  Gothic 
style,  some  very  florid ;  this  shows  that  it  was  a  long 
time  in  building.  The  main  entrance  is  perfectly 
gorgeous,  the  stone  fretted  and  carved  like  so  much 
petrified  lace;  the  outer  gate  is  only  opened  to  admit 
the  reigning  sovereign.  The  interior  is  marred, 
like  Seville  and  Cordova,  by  the  coro.  The  stained 
glass  is  sumptuous.  Over  the  main  door  is  a  thirty- 
foot  rose  window,  in  each  transept  a  smaller  rose. 
The  afternoon  sun,  pouring  through  these  and  the 
graceful  pointed  windows  in  the  different  parts  of 
the  church,  did  much  to  counteract  the  cold,  white- 
washed walls.  The  vast  white  stone  columns, 
with  their  prodigal  carving,  were  stained  ruby, 
amber,  emerald,  the  seven  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
by  the  sunlight  falling  through  those  jewel  windows. 
The  cathedral  is  a  museum  in  itself.  One  of  the 
treasures  is  a  small  carved  wooden  statuette  of  St. 
Francis,  by  Alonzo  Cano.  The  saint  stands  with 
his  arms  folded;  the  marvellous  face  of  carven 
ivory,  the  agate  eyes,  look  at  you  from  the  dark 
shadow  of  his  cowl.  Eyes  and  face  reminded  us 
of  a  pair  of  Egyptian  statues  at  Cairo,  whose 


TOLEDO  337 

discovery  Marriatt  Bey  described:  the  workman  who 
first  entered  the  tomb  where  they  were  found  came 
hurrying  out  in  terror,  crying,  "  There  are  live 
people  in  there;  I  saw  the  shining  of  their  eyes!  " 

Our  first  visit  to  the  cathedral,  with  Gregorio  to 
protect  us,  was  the  best.  When  we  went  back 
without  him,  we  were  harried  by  the  silencieros, 
vulgarly  called  dog-beaters,  fierce  beadles  with 
long  staves  who  pursued  us,  would  not  let  us  look  at 
what  we  wanted  to  see,  and  tried  to  make  us  look 
at  things  we  did  not  care  for. 

From  the  cathedral  Gregorio  took  us  to  the 
Archbishop's  palace,  connected  with  it  by  a 
covered  bridge,  high  up  in  the  air,  like  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs  at  Venice. 

*  The  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  Primate 
of  Spain,  lives  here,"  said  Gregorio.  "  He  passes 
through  that  bridge  when  he  goes  from  the  palace  to 
the  cathedral.  I  would  take  you  to  call  upon  him, 
but  we  should  not  find  him  at  home.  He  goes 
every  afternoon  to  the  new  convent  he  has  founded, 
to  see  how  the  workmen  are  getting  on." 

"  Let  us  follow  him  to  the  convent,"  said  Don 
Luis,  an  adorable  cicerone,  bent  on  showing  us  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  works.  After  a 
little  coaxing,  Gregorio  agreed  to  take  us  to  see  the 
Archbishop.  We  must  not  object,  he  stipulated,  to 
stopping  for  a  lady,  he  mentioned  her  name. 


338      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  You  will  be  doing  our  friends  a  great  service," 
said  Don  Luis,  "  for  she  is  not  only  very  dis- 
tinguished and  beautiful,  but  exceedingly  kind." 

She  was  all  Don  Luis  said,  and  more!  Among 
the  visions  that  arise  when  the  magical  name  Toledo 
is  spoken,  none  is  more  vivid  than  Engracia's  dark, 
mobile  face.  She  was  one  of  those  women  born  to 
command.  From  the  moment  she  appeared  to  us, 
standing  on  the  steps  of  the  old  Toledan  palace, 
daintily  holding  up  her  white  linen  skirt,  em- 
broidered with  purple  grapes,  we  all,  even  Gregorio, 
obeyed  her. 

We  drove  directly  to  the  convent  where  we  were 
promptly  admitted  by  one  of  the  sisters  of  the  new 
order  founded  by  the  Cardinal.  She  wore  a  simple 
black  gown  with  a  thin  lace  veil,  not  unlike  those 
of  Spanish  women  of  the  lower  class, —  the  best 
dressed  women  in  the  world  to-day,  from  the 
artist's  standpoint.  The  sister  showed  us  into 
the  parlor,  and  went  to  announce  our  visit  to  the 
Cardinal.  From  the  adjoining  room  came  the 
sound  of  sweet  high  voices  singing  the  rosary; 
we  caught  a  glimpse  of  rows  of  little  girls  sitting 
demurely  with  folded  hands. 

Gregorio  explained  that  this  was  a  teaching 
sisterhood.  He  wished  to  interest  Engracia  in  the 
convent.  There  was  still  room  for  a  few  more 
novices.  Each  novice  must  bring  a  dot  of  four 


TOLEDO  339 

thousand  dollars,  which  insured  her  support  for  the 
rest  of  her  life.  While  Gregorio  was  describing  the 
joys  of  life  in  a  Toledo  convent,  the  Cardinal  sent 
for  us.  We  found  him  in  the  garden,  attended  by 
his  secretary  and  the  Lady  Superior.  They  had 
been  inspecting  some  mason  work.  The  Cardinal 
was  a  fine  subtle-faced  old  man  with  an  authorita- 
tive manner,  and  a  straighter,  more  dominating 
eye  than  any  Roman  cleric  I  know.  Though  he 
wore  a  simple  black  habit,  with  only  a  thread  of 
scarlet  and  the  scarlet  moire  skullcap  under  the 
shovel  hat,  I  recognized  him  at  once  as  the  splendid 
prelate  in  the  vermilion  robes  who  had  officiated 
at  the  Infanta's  marriage,  and  who  would,  Gregorio 
said,  celebrate  the  marriage  of  the  King. 

Imperious  Engracia  knelt  before  the  Cardinal, 
and  kissed  his  emerald  ring.  He  asked  about  her 
husband  and  parents,  whom  he  had  known,  and 
then  began  to  talk  with  her  about  his  convent. 
He  had  founded  this  new  order  to  resist  the  teach- 
ing of  socialism  and  atheism  to  the  masses.  He 
had  talked  the  plan  over  with  Leo  XIII,  "  a  fine, 
great  pope,"  who  had  sympathized  deeply  with  his 
scheme.  Pope  Leo,  however,  had  feared  it  would 
be  difficult  to  carry  out  the  plan.  It  was  a  moment 
when  convents  and  religious  orders  were  being 
broken  up  everywhere;  those  already  existing  could 
only  be  maintained  with  the  greatest  fostering. 


340      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

He  hoped,  however,  that  the  Cardinal  might 
succeed,  and  blessed  his  undertaking.  The  whole 
idea  of  the  new  order  was  to  teach  the  true  value 
of  the  Church.  The  sisters  were  to  have  far 
greater  liberty  in  coming  and  going  than  in  the 
older  orders.  This  was  borne  out  by  the  free  and 
frank  bearing  of  the  five  or  six  sisters  we  saw. 
I  was  struck  by  the  simplicity  and  directness  of 
their  manners.  Compared  to  the  Abbess  of  Ronda, 
who  might  have  belonged  to  the  time  of  Santa 
Teresa,  the  Superior  of  the  Toledo  Convent  seemed 
a  modern  person  belonging  to  our  epoch.  Was 
she  ?  To  this  day  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind ! 
Can  we  pour  new  wine  into  old  bottles,  and  mend 
the  old  garment  with  new  cloth?  That  is  the 
question! 

We  parted  with  the  Cardinal  at  sunset.  He 
shook  hands  kindly  with  us,  and  with  old-fashioned 
courtesy  invited  us  to  come  and  see  him  again  if  we 
should  return  to  Toledo. 

We  spent  much  of  our  too  short  time  in  Toledo 
in  studying  the  pictures  of  that  strange  and  in- 
teresting painter,  Domenico  Theotocopulos,  called 
El  Greco  because  he  was  a  Greek,  a  native  of 
Crete.  The  portraits  in  the  little  Museum  of  San 
Juan  de  Los  Reyes  are  among  the  best  examples 
of  his  individual  and  peculiar  manner.  Greco  is  a 
realist;  he  paints  what  he  sees  with  splendid  fidelity 


DETAIL    FROM    "THE    BURIAL   OF   COUNT   ORGAZ."  Greco 


TOLEDO  341 

and  power.  His  most  famous  picture,  the  Funeral 
of  Count  Orgaz,  in  the  church  of  San  Tome,  is  a 
fine  illustration  both  of  his  strength  and  his  weak- 
ness. In  the  lower  part  of  the  canvas  we  have  the 
dead  Count,  with  the  priests  and  the  mourners 
about  him.  Here  all  is  real;  the  dead  man  in  his 
armor,  the  Bishop  in  his  mitre  and  gorgeous  robes, 
the  long  line  of  attendants  and  mourners,  and  the 
lovely  head  of  the  young  boy  are  all  portrait  studies. 
In  the  upper  part,  where  the  heavenly  vision  is 
painted,  Greco  has  left  the  realm  of  the  real  and 
entered  that  of  the  ideal.  Instead  of  raising  us  to 
the  seventh  heaven,  he  lets  us  down  upon  the  earth. 
Saints  Augustine  and  Stephen,  who  appear  in  the 
clouds  as  a  heavenly  vision  attended  by  a  hea- 
venly host  —  things  imagined  and  not  seen  —  are 
grotesque,  almost  ridiculous. 

Don  Luis  was  right;  it  is  only  at  Toledo  that  one 
can  really  understand  El  Greco.  The  religious 
pictures  at  the  Prado  had  offended  us;  they  had 
seemed  the  work  of  a  madman.  At  Toledo  one 
gets  a  true  understanding  of  his  original  and  ex- 
traordinary personality.  He  neither  saw  nor 
painted  as  other  men  see  and  paint.  There  was 
much  that  was  morbid,  something  that  was  mad 
in  his  vision;  but  there  was,  besides,  much  that  was 
sincere,  honest  and  lucid.  El  Greco,  who  is  now 
ranked  as  second  only  to  Velasquez  by  many 


342      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

critics,  by  some  as  his  equal  if  not  superior,  seems 
to  have  become  so  thoroughly  saturated  with  the 
Spanish  sentiment  that,  though  his  name  is  a 
constant  reminder  of  his  nationality,  he  is  in- 
variably spoken  of  as  if  he  were  in  truth  a  Spaniard. 
The  strange  and  wayward  genius,  who  has  so 
touched  and  influenced  the  imagination  of  Ve- 
lasquez, of  Sargent  and  so  many  other  famous 
painters,  was  a  true  son  of  Hellas.  To  Greece 
belong  his  glory  and  his  laurels. 


XIV 
THE  BRIDE  COMES 

IN  March  Sir  Maurice  de  Bunsen,  the  new  Eng- 
lish Ambassador,  presented  his  credentials  to 
the  King.  We  went  over  to  the  palace  to  see  what 
we  could  of  the  ceremony.  There  had  been  a  sud- 
den change  in  the  weather.  It  was  very  hot  wait- 
ing in  the  Plaza  de  Armas  outside  the  palace. 
The  chicos,  playing  at  marbles  instead  of  basking 
in  the  sun,  had  moved  into  the  shadow.  There 
were  very  few  spectators;  Mrs.  Young,  the  wife 
of  one  of  the  English  Secretaries,  fair  and  cool  in  a 
white  summer  dress,  her  maid  armed  with  a  kodak, 
and  perhaps  a  dozen  other  people. 

*  What  do  they  mean,"  said  Patsy,  "  by  saying 
that  in  Madrid  you  must  not  put  away  your  over- 
coat till  the  fortieth  of  May  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  little  and  perhaps  you  will  know,"  said  a 
familiar  voice.  It  was  the  Argentine,  who  had 
lately  come  to  Madrid;  the  chance  acquaintance 
begun  at  Cordova  was  ripening  into  something 
like  friendship. 


344      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Two  lines  of  soldiers  in  fresh  blue  uniforms  with 
green  trimmings  and  gloves  were  drawn  up  be- 
tween the  gate  of  the  plaza  and  the  palace.  Punc- 
tually at  the  appointed  hour  the  band  struck  up 
the  Spanish  national  air,  there  was  a  ruffle  of 
drums  and  a  fine  gala  coach  from  the  royal  stables 
came  rumbling  along  the  Calle  Bailen  at  the  heels 
of  four  noble  horses  with  head-dresses  of  long 
nodding  blue  ostrich  plumes.  The  coach  was  of 
gold  and  crystal  with  beautiful  painted  panels. 
The  liveries  of  coachman,  postillions,  outriders, 
palfreniers  and  men-in-waiting  who  walked  beside, 
were  blue  and  gold  to  match  the  splendid  trappings. 

"  The  coach  is  empty,  there  is  nobody  inside," 
cried  Patsy.  *  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  This,"  said  the  Argentine,  "  is  the  coche  de 
respecto  for  the  Secretaries  of  Embassy.  In  the 
days  when  people  travelled  by  post  or  on  horse- 
back, important  personages  always  had  a  led  horse 
or  an  extra  carriage  in  case  of  accident." 

"  What  accident,"  laughed  Patsy,  "  could  hap- 
pen between  the  Embassy  and  the  palace  ?  " 

"  One  never  knows;  it  is  one  of  the  picturesque 
old  customs  the  Spanish  Court  preserves,  even 
though  the  need  of  the  coche  de  respecto  may  have 
been  outlived." 

In  the  second  coach  —  as  handsome  in  every 
detail  as  the  first,  the  only  difference  being  that 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  345 

the  feathers  and  decorations  were  red  instead  of 
blue  —  rode  Mr.  Fairfax  Cartwright,  Mr.  George 
Young,  and  two  other  English  Secretaries  of  Em- 
bassy, looking  magnificent  and  uncomfortable  in 
stiff  gold-laced  court  uniforms.  Mr.  Young  made 
a  little  gesture  of  recognition  to  his  wife,  the  others 
did  not  look  out  of  the  window. 

The  Ambassador's  coche  de  respecto,  drawn  by 
six  horses,  was  even  finer  than  the  other.  The 
liveries,  trappings  and  feathers  were  red  and  yel- 
low, the  Spanish  colors.  There  were  six  coaches 
in  all,  four  for  the  Englishmen,  two  for  the  escort. 
In  the  last  rode  Sir  Maurice,  a  tall  fair  man,  with  the 
the  First  Introducer,  both  radiant  in  court  finery. 
They  had  driven  down  the  Calle  Bailen  in  single 
file;  at  the  plaza  the  shining  coaches  were  drawn 
up  into  two  lines,  three  abreast,  with  an  escort  of 
mounted  cavalry  on  either  side.  They  advanced 
at  a  snail's  pace,  crossed  the  palace  yard  where  the 
soldiers  stood  at  attention,  and  approached  the 
three  doors  of  the  palace  to  the  music  of  the  mili- 
tary march.  The  ambassador  drove  in  through 
the  middle  door. 

'  That  is  the  royal  entrance,"  said  the  Argentino. 
"  Sir  Maurice  passes  through  it  to-day  because  he 
brings  letters  from  King  Edward;  he  is  not  likely 
ever  to  go  through  it  again." 

While  we  waited  to  see  them  come  out,  a  private 


346       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

brougham  with  black  and  silver  liveries  drove  up 
to  the  door  by  which  the  Secretaries  had  gone  in. 
We  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lady  de  Bunsen  in  a  white 
dress  with  feathers  in  her  hair,  on  the  way  to  her 
audience  with  the  Queen. 

"  She  has  come  early,"  said  the  Argentino,  "  so 
that  she  may  see  the  finest  sight  of  the  ceremony, 
the  halberdiers  guarding  the  grand  staircase  while 
the  Ambassador  passes  in  and  out  of  the  throne 
room.  They  stand  two  on  each  step  in  that  old 
swashbuckler  uniform,  silver-buckled  shoes,  cuta- 
way coats,  knee  breeches  and  cocked  hats,  hold- 
ing their  big  halberds  so  that  the  blades  touch. 
The  Ambassador  walks  up  and  down  the  stair 
between  two  flashing  lines  of  steel.  It  really  is 
worth  seeing." 

We  waited  till  the  audience  was  over,  watched  the 
Ambassador  and  his  suite  drive  away  in  the  same 
state  as  they  had  come,  and  a  little  later  the  hal- 
berdiers march  out  of  the  palace  and  down  the 
Calle  Bailen  to  their  barracks. 

"  There  goes  Pedro,"  murmured  Patsy,  as  the 
halberdier  who  had  made  room  for  us  at  the  In- 
fanta's wedding  swung  by.  '  The  soldiers  on 
duty  in  the  yard  looked  like  any  other  soldiers. 
These  chaps  could  only  be  Spanishers.  The  fire 
in  the  eye,  the  haughtiness,  are  perfectly  colossal !  " 

"  And  the  fierce  curl  of  the  bigotes.     You  know 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  347 

what  bigote  means?  When  the  Spanish  soldiers 
were  in  the  Low  countries,  they  fell  in  with  the 
English  —  you  remember  Uncle  Toby  says  '  our 
army  swore  terribly  in  Flanders.'  Every  time  the 
British  soldier  swore  he  twisted  his  moustache  and 
said  *  by  God !  *  The  Spanish  imitated  him, 
twirled  his  moustachios  and  cried  *  bigote.'  By 
and  by  he  connected  the  action  with  the  words, 
imagined  the  oath  had  something  to  do  with  the 
moustache;  to  this  day  the  Spaniard  calls  his  mous- 
tache a  bigote  in  memory  of  that  swearing  English 
army  in  Flanders  —  or,  some  people  say,  of  the 
swearing  German  soldiers  of  Charles  V." 

We  lingered  after  the  other  spectators  had  gone, 
and  the  chicos  had  begun  their  game  again;  palace 
and  plaza  had  a  strong  fascination  for  us.  We 
looked  through  the  arches  of  the  peristyle  across 
the  bare  Castilian  plain  to  the  snow-capped 
Guadarramas. 

'  The  Escorial  lies  in  that  direction,"  said  the 
Argentine.  "On  clear  days  it  can  be  seen  from 
the  palace.  Do  you  suppose  when  he  looks  out  of 
window,  Don  Alfonzo  ever  thinks  about  that  black 
marble  sarcophagus  waiting  for  him  over  there  ?  " 

That  seventh  wonder  of  the  world,  the  Escorial, 
palace,  monastery  and  mausoleum  all  in  one,  was 
built  by  Philip  II.  It  is  a  proper  monument  to  a 
man  who  is  remembered  as  having  laughed  rarely, 


348      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

and  loudest  when  he  heard  of  the  Massacre  of  Saint 
Bartholomew.  The  Escorial  expresses  Philip's 
dour  personality  as  no  other  building  that  I  know 
expresses  any  other  man's.  From  the  moment  you 
catch  sight  of  the  gloomy  pile,  built  in  the  shape 
of  a  gridiron,  in  memory  of  Saint  Lawrence,  you 
feel  if  ever  place  was  haunted,  the  ghost  of  Philip 
haunts  that  gray  grim  tragedy  in  stone. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Patsy,  "  that  I  saw  the  Escor- 
ial; I  shall  be  glad  never  to  see  it  again.  The 
places  where  people  have  lived  for  me,  rather  than 
those  where  they  are  buried.  This  palace  is  a 
thousand  times  more  interesting  than  the  Escorial. 
Think  how  much  we  know  about  the  people  who 
have  lived  here!  When  Napoleon  first  saw  this 
palace,  he  said  to  his  brother  Joseph  —  he  had  just 
casually  made  him  King  of  Spain:  "  You  will  be 
better  lodged  than  I." 

(Poor  Joseph  did  not  enjoy  the  lodging  long;  he 
was  glad  to  escape  from  it  alive  and  fly  to  Borden- 
town,  New  Jersey,  where  he  lived  in  semi-royal 
state  at  Point  Breeze.  Here,  an  old  letter  preserves 
the  fact,  my  grandmother  Ward  dined  with  him, 
and  wore  an  "  embroidered  cambric  dress  and  a 
lilac  turban.") 

4  We  are  interested  not  only  in  the  people  who 
have  lived  here,  but  in  those  who  live  here  now," 
Patsy  went  on,  as  a  closed  carriage  drawn  by  four 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  349 

black  mules  dashed  by.  "  There  go  the  King's 
nieces  and  nephews." 

The  little  Prince  of  the  Asturias,  the  heir  to  the 
throne,  bowed,  smiled  and  waved  his  tiny  hand 
in  quaint  mechanical  greeting  to  whoever  might 
be  looking.  The  youngest  child,  still  happily  un- 
conscious of  his  rank,  wriggled  in  the  English 
nurse's  arms  like  any  other  baby  out  for  its  airing. 

*  The  boy  has  learned  his  part  well,"  said  the 
Argentine.  "  He's  not  like  the  little  prince  Im- 
perial: when  the  Empress  Eugenie  threatened  to 
punish  him,  he  made  the  dreadful  counter  threat, 
'  je  Sera<^  des  grimaces  au  peuple  '  (I  will  make 
faces  at  the  people).  There  you  see  the  differ- 
ence between  real  and  upstart  royalty!" 

The  day  after  the  Ambassador's  audience  seemed 
to  us  the  coldest  of  the  winter.  The  trees  in  the 
Recoletos  had  a  wedge  of  snow  down  one  side,  the 
side  that  faces  north  and  gets  the  full  force  of 
the  wind  sweeping  down  from  the  snow  fields  of 
the  Guadarramas.  Engracia's  vivid  face  was 
tingling  with  the  cold  when  she  blew  into  the 
Tower  with  Don  Luis  that  morning  and  announced 
that  she  had  come  to  take  us  into  the  country  for 
the  day. 

"  The  motor  is  at  the  door;  "  she  declared, 
"  luncheon  is  ordered.  We  go  first  to  El  Pardo 
to  see  the  royal  hunting  chateau,  and  then  on  to 


350      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

our  own  shooting  box  where  my  husband  joins 
us." 

From  our  first  meeting  at  Toledo,  not  a  week  had 
passed  without  some  pleasant  incident  for  which 
we  had  to  thank  Engracia. 

The  city  was  soon  left  behind  and  we  were 
bowling  along  a  road  smooth  as  a  billiard  table 
cut  through  the  heart  of  a  wood.  The  cool  breath 
of  the  forest  was  in  our  faces,  the  smell  of  the  woods 
in  our  nostrils,  a  mingled  perfume  of  tree,  moss, 
wild  creature,  and  under  all,  binding  them  together 
like  ambergris,  the  mysterious  scent  of  decay. 
The  air  was  full  of  wood  noises,  the  peace  and  calm 
of  the  wilderness  lay  on  either  side  of  us  not  twenty 
feet  away  from  a  road  as  good  as  the  Paseo  Cas- 
tellana. 

"  For  the  first  time,"  said  Patsy,  "  I  envy  Don 
Alfonzo.  I  should  hate  to  live  in  a  palace,  to  have 
the  power  of  life  and  death,  to  pass  my  life  under  a 
microscope,  but  I  must  say  I  should  like  to  own 
El  Pardo." 

"  Velasquez  often  stayed  here  with  King  Philip 
and  his  brothers,"  said  Don  Luis.  "  No  wonder 
they  all  liked  it.  Court  etiquette  relaxed,  the  artist 
was  treated  as  the  friend.  One  understands  why 
he  painted  so  many  portraits  of  the  royalties  man 
and  boy,  in  hunting  dress,  with  gun  and  dog. 
They  were  not  only  tremendous  sports,  but 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  351 

caramba!  in  these  woods  there  was  freedom,  even 
for  a  king,  even  for  a  genius!  " 

Engracia  on  the  front  seat  scanned  the  covers 
with  keen  eyes. 

"  Look!  "  she  cried.  *  There  is  a  deer;  if  I 
only  had  my  gun,  what  an  easy  shot!  There  goes 
a  red  fox  scuttling  across  the  road.  Ah !  that  was  a 
hare."  A  bright-eyed  furry  creature  gave  us  one 
timid  glance,  flattened  its  ears  and  leapt  into  the 
bracken. 

At  the  chateau  we  were  refused  admittance. 
Engracia,  used  to  seeing  all  doors  fly  open  before 
her,  sent  for  the  official  in  charge,  an  old  friend  of 
hers. 

"  Don  Fulano,  these  are  my  friends;  they  are  very 
anxious  to  see  the  chateau.  Surely  we  may  come 
in  ?  "  Engracia  entreated. 

Don  Fulano,  a  grave  Castilian,  regretted,  evaded, 
apologized,  finally  confessed.  All  ordinary  rules 
should  be  set  aside  for  Engracia,  but  he  himself 
had  received  orders  from  His  Majesty  that  no  one 
should  be  admitted  to  the  grounds.  The  work 
of  putting  the  chateau  in  order  for  the  bride  had 
begun. 

Engracia  sparkled  with  excitement  at  the  news. 
In  that  case,  of  course,  we  would  not  dream  of 
asking;  how  natural,  how  charming  of  Don 
Alfonzo! 


352      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

As  we  could  not  see  the  house,  Don  Fulano  took 
us  to  a  neighboring  casino  where,  he  said,  the 
royal  guests  would  go  for  tea.  Here  we  wandered 
in  the  garden;  Engracia  picked  a  spray  of  orange 
blossoms,  tucked  it  in  her  belt;  then,  like  a  fairy 
godmother,  witched  us  away  in  her  motor  to  the 
shooting  lodge,  where  we  found  her  serious  hus- 
band and  her  five-year-old  son.  The  shooting 
box  stood  on  a  piece  of  high  cleared  ground  sur- 
rounded by  a  thick  wood;  it  seemed  delightfully 
sylvan  and  remote  from  feverish  Madrid. 

*  We  come  here  three  days  a  week,"  Engracia 
said  when  we  were  seated  at  luncheon.  "  When- 
ever the  pace  gets  too  rapid  in  town,  I  fly  out  here 
for  a  rest." 

Her  husband  laughed.  "  For  a  change  of  activ- 
ities," he  said.  "  Engracia  is  a  good  shot,  these 
are  her  trophies." 

The  antlers  of  a  stag  hung  over  the  fireplace,  the 
floor  was  spread  with  skins.  Engracia,  pouring 
tea  at  the  head  of  the  table,  nodded  towards  a  shelf 
laden  with  silver  cups. 

"  There  are  his  trophies,"  she  laughed.  "  I 
have  not  yet  won  a  prize." 

"  You  shot  the  birds  we  are  eating,"  said  the 
husband.  "  Isn't  that  more  important  ?  " 

After  lunch  the  people  who  knew  how  to  shoot 
went  off  with  guns  and  left  me  in  the  lodge  with  a 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  353 

bright  fire  crackling  in  the  chimney  and  Engracia's 
little  son  for  company. 

It  was  part  of  our  luck,  as  Patsy  said,  that  we 
should  have  had  that  sharp  crisp  day  for  our 
expedition,  our  one  experience  of  life  in  a  Spanish 
hunting  lodge.  Even  the  weather  was  on  our  side! 

We  drove  back  through  the  town  of  El  Pardo,  a 
sleepy  place  on  the  bank  of  the  Manzanares.  Cat- 
tle were  drinking  in  the  river;  in  a  meadow  where 
we  stopped  to  admire  some  fine  oaks,  a  flock  of 
half-tame  magpies  were  hopping  over  the  grass. 

In  spite  of  April  hailstorms  it  was  a  forward 
spring,  the  fruit  trees  put  on  their  bridal  dresses 
early  to  welcome  the  bride.  In  the  Buen  Retiro 
purple  and  white  violets  bloomed  so  thick  that  the 
air  was  scented.  The  laburnums  shook  out  long 
golden  clusters,  the  wistaria  unfurled  amethyst 
blossoms.  The  honey-sweet  smell  of  the  acacias 
in  the  Recoletos  came  in  at  the  windows  and  drove 
us  abroad  early  and  late.  It  was  impossible  to 
stay  indoors  with  the  trees  in  flower,  the  streets 
abloom  with  children  and  girls.  The  crowd  of 
vehicles  in*  the  Paseo  was  so  great  that  horses  and 
automobiles  moved  at  a  foot  pace. 

In  the  noon  hour  the  working  men  and  their 
families,  who  in  winter  had  sought  the  sunny 
corners  for  their  out-of-door  feasts,  hunted  for 
the  shadow  of  tree  or  kiosk.  We  were  on  friendly 


354       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

terms  with  several  of  these  family  groups,  and  had 
often  been  invited  to  join  them  at  their  meal. 
Patsy,  consumed  with  curiosity  to  know  just 
what  they  had  to  eat,  made  an  excuse  to  stop  one 
day  and  talk  with  a  mason,  just  as  the  man  left 
off  work. 

"  Not  two  minutes  after  twelve,"  Patsy  told  us 
afterwards,  "  the  mason's  wife  and  children  came 
trotting  up  with  the  family  dinner.  The  wife  car- 
ried a  kettle  of  hot  puchero,  the  eldest  girl  a  dish  of 
sausage  and  garlic,  neatly  tied  up  in  a  clean  nap- 
kin; one  boy  had  the  bread,  another  the  fruit,  a 
middle-sized  child  plates,  spoons  and  knives  for  the 
party.  The  father  said  there  were  few  days  in  the 
year  when  his  children  did  not  dine  with  him;  he 
believed  in  family  life.  He  could  not  give  time  to 
go  home,  so  the  family  came  to  him  and  they  all 
dined  together  in  the  open  air  at  the  nearest  shel- 
tered corner." 

The  house  where  the  mason  was  at  work  was 
being  swept,  garnished  and  put  in  apple-pie  order 
for  some  of  the  wedding  guests,  who  were  to  lodge 
there.  It  was  a  good  season  for  the  working  peo- 
ple. It  may  be  that  Madrid  is  always  as  fresh, 
smart  and  tidy  as  it  was  in  that  year  of  Grace,  1906, 
but  it  seemed  to  us  that  everybody  tried  to  add  to 
the  general  festive  air  by  a  little  private  gilding  and 
varnishing  on  his  own  account.  Don  Jaime 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  355 

bought  what  he  had  threatened  to  buy  for  years,  a 
new  set  of  teeth.  Pedra  made  herself  a  scarlet 
bodice,  in  which  she  looked  prettier  than  ever. 
At  the  palace  an  army  of  furbishers  were  touching 
up,  silver-plating,  gilding  and  polishing.  Work 
was  pushed  at  the  royal  stables.  The  fifty  state 
carriages  needed  for  the  wedding  pageant,  with  the 
harnesses,  liveries,  and  ostrich  plumes  for  the 
horses,  were  renewed  or  furbished  up  to  look  as 
good  as  new,  at  a  cost  of  half  a  million  duros. 

The  hostlers  at  the  studs  of  Aranjuez  had  extra 
work,  for  the  eight  cream-colored  horses  chosen 
to  draw  the  bridal  coach  must  have  coats  like  satin 
on  the  King's  wedding  day.  Aranjuez,  a  royal 
summer  residence,  is  a  place  lovely  with  the  noise 
of  running  waters  and  the  songs  of  nightingales. 
The  elms  here  were  brought  out  from  England  by 
grim  Philip  II,  who  laid  out  the  garden  so  well  that 
I  relented  a  little  towards  him  when  I  saw  it.  The 
court  no  longer  goes  to  Aranjuez,  and  the  royal 
stud  is  not  what  it  was  in  the  days  when  camels 
and  lamas  were  raised  there ;  but  it  is  still  an  inter- 
esting place,  if  I  only  had  time  to  tell  about  it! 
During  the  wars  of  the  last  century  the  French 
destroyed  the  breeding  stables,  but  in  1842  they 
were  restored  and  stallions  were  imported  from 
England. 

Extra  hands  were  taken  on  at  the  Madrid  Tapestry 


356       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Manufactory.  "  Everybody  who  owns  a  tapestry 
wants  it  in  order  of  course,"  said  the  Director 
who  showed  us  over  the  factory.  A  dozen  men 
were  at  work  upon  a  famous  set  of  ruby  velvet 
hangings  emblazoned  with  silver,  priceless  things, 
not  only  unique  but  beautiful. 

'  You  will  see  these  hanging  from  the  front  of  the 
Duke  of  Cestus'  palace  all  through  the  fetes,"  the 
director  said. 

"  Suppose  it  should  rain!  "  I  cried  horrified. 

He  shrugged  his  shouders;  "  The  Duke  takes  the 
risk,"  he  said.  "The  king  is  not  married  everyday." 

The  last  Friday  in  May  the  Princess  Ena,  her 
mother  and  her  two  brothers  entered  Spain.  We 
heard  then  for  the  first  time  that  she  wished  to  be 
known  in  future  as  Queen  Victoria. 

'  That  shows  courage,"  was  Patsy's  comment. 
"  A  great  name  is  a  good  thing  to  try  and  live  up 
to,  to  be  sure!  " 

Don  Alfonso  met  the  Princess  at  the  frontier 
and  they  all  travelled  together  to  El  Pardo.  All 
Madrid,  at  least  all  fashionable  Madrid,  rode, 
drove,  motored  or  ballooned  out  to  meet  them. 
Patsy  of  course  managed  to  be  there  with  Don 
Jaime.  They  described  the  arrival  of  the  bride 
as  a  brilliant  scene.  All  the  great  people  were 
there  in  their  best  clothes;  there  was  an  over- 
whelming amount  of  gold  lace;  they  all  looked 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  357 

and  behaved  just  as  they  should.  "  It  was  more 
than  ever  like  Lohengrin,"  was  Patsy's  summing 
up. 

1  begged  for  particulars  and  learned  that  the 
Princess  looked  beautiful  as  she  drove  to  the 
chateau  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  four  mules;  Don 
Alfonzo  on  horseback  at  her  right,  the  Prince  of  the 
Asturias  at  her  left. 

"What  did  she  wear?" 

"  Such  golden  hair,  such  a  color,  such  blue, 
blue  eyes!  "  That  was  all  the  satisfaction  I  got 
out  of  Patsy.  Don  Jaime  was  incoherent  with 
enthusiasm. 

"  Muy  guapa,  divinamente  guapa  / "  he  kept 
repeating.  "  And  what  a  health,  grace  heaven! 
Not  only  for  a  Princess  but  if  only  a  simple  gel !  " 

By  this  time  Madrid  was  upside  down  with 
excitement.  The  hurry-flurry  of  the  final  prepara- 
tions was  contagious.  Most  people  really  were 
busy,  the  others  thought  they  were.  Don  Jaime 
got  up  at  twelve  o'clock,  instead  of  two,  and 
Patsy  insisted,  sometimes  forgot  to  go  to  bed  at 
all.  The  wedding  guests  were  pouring  into  the 
city  by  every  train. 

"I  am  becoming  hardened  to  royalty,"  Patsy 
announced  one  evening.  *  I  have  seen  three 
royal  princes  and  four  Ambassadors  Extraordinary 
arrive  to-day.  The  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales 


358      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

and  the  Crown  Prince  of  Sweden  drove  straight  to 
the  palace." 

All  the  King's  relations  and  the  direct  heirs  to 
thrones  stayed  at  the  palace.  The  other  visiting 
Princes  and  Ambassadors  Extraordinary  were 
lodged  at  the  best  private  houses.  We  heard  that 
the  owners  would  accept  no  pay  for  the  use  of  them ; 
it  was  honor  enough  to  be  allowed  to  lend  their 
houses  to  the  King  for  the  use  of  his  guests. 

"  It  may  be  the  custom  in  other  countries,"  said 
Patsy,  "  but  I  doubt  it.  There's  something  chiv- 
alresque  and  Spanish  about  it!  " 

One  of  the  envoys  let  it  be  known  that  he  wished 
to  give  various  entertainments  during  his  stay  in 
Madrid.  He  was  told  that  he  had  but  to  give  his 
orders:  the  house  and  the  corps  of  servants  were 
at  his  disposal.  Only,  Spain  reserved  the  right  of 
paying  all  the  bills.  In  a  commercial  age  such 
things  are  pleasant  to  meet  with. 

The  Austrian  Grand  Duke  stayed  not  far  from 
the  Tower  at  the  palace  of  the  Duke  of  Medina 
Celli,  the  representative  of  an  elder  branch  of  the 
royal  family.  At  every  coronation,  the  head  of 
this  house  makes  a  formal  protest,  and  asserts  his 
hereditary  claim  to  the  throne.  He  ranks  next  to 
the  King  and  has  the  second  place  at  all  cere- 
monials. 

When  the  great  people  had  all  arrived,  Villegas 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  359 

took  an  afternoon  off  and  drove  us  about  the  city 
to  show  us  where  they  were  staying.  Outside 
each  palace  or  house  where  a  distinguished  guest 
was  billeted  a  sentry  box,  painted  with  the  national 
colors  of  the  guest,  had  been  placed  and  a  sentinel 
posted.  Over  the  handsome  house  allotted  to  Mr. 
Whittredge,  the  American  Ambassador  Extraor- 
dinary, floated  the  stars  and  stripes;  the  sentry  box 
before  the  door  was  painted  red,  white  and  blue. 

The  American  Consul  at  Madrid  was  an  angel. 
It  may  not  be  set  forth  in  the  civil-service  examina- 
tion papers  that  applicants  for  consulships  must 
prove  angelic  character;  it  is  probably  one  of 
those  traditions  mightier  than  law.  How  else 
could  they  face  the  cares  of  office  without  becoming 
hopeless  misanthropes?  Our  Consul  made  us 
welcome  at  the  Consulate,  over  whose  door  a 
rusty  American  eagle  spread  his  painted  tin  wings. 
In  whatever  trouble  J.  or  Patsy  or  I  found  our- 
selves, we  rushed  to  No.  8  Calle  Jorge  y  Juan 
and  either  the  Consul,  or  his  angelic  clerk,  or 
his  cherubic  office  boy,  rescued  and  comforted 
us,  smoothed  out  our  difficulties,  set  our  erring 
feet  on  the  right  road.  One  morning  when 
the  pressure  on  every  official  in  Madrid,  even  the 
officials  of  foreign  governments,  was  almost  at 
breaking  point,  Patsy  dropped  in  at  the  Consulate. 
He  found  the  Consul  opening  his  mail. 


360      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  Isn't  it  a  pretty  large  order  to  read  all  those 
letters,  Mr.  Summers  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Listen  to  this,"  sighed  the  Consul: 

'  Dear  Sir:  My  daughter  and  I  arrive  in 
Madrid  on  Saturday  morning.  As  I  hear  the  city 
is  full  on  account  of  the  wedding  fetes  I  must 
trouble  you  to  engage  rooms  for  us.  They  must  be 
in  a  stylish,  but  not  too  expensive  house.  We 
wish  to  go  to  the  wedding,  the  ball  at  the  palace, 
and  all  the  other  entertainments.  If  you  should 
be  unable  to  secure  us  invitations,  kindly  ask  the 
Ambassador  to  attend  to  the  matter. 
Yours  truly, 

MRS.  EMERALD  GREEN.'  ' 

Just  then  a  telegram  was  brought  in  by  Pepe,  the 
cherubic  office  boy.  The  Consul  sighed  again  as 
he  read  it  aloud: 

"  Please  wire  answer  to  my  letter  immediately, 
stating  address  of  rooms.  Am  sending  large 
trunk  to  your  care.  E.  G." 

"  Friends  of  yours  ?  "  asked  Patsy. 

"  Never  heard  of  them." 

"  Wife  and  daughter  of  Congressman  ?  " 

"  Emerald  Green,  it's  not  a  name  I  know." 

"  Do  you  get  many  such  letters  ?  " 

"  Tons  of  them;  it's  all  in  the  day's  work." 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  361 

The  ring  in  his  voice  was  characteristic  of  the 
time.  Nobody  minded  the  extra  trouble  they 
were  put  to,  everybody  gladly  lent  a  hand  to  help 
those  two  young  people  get  married.  If  a  house- 
hold is  turned  topsy  turvy  when  a  daughter  is 
married,  it  is  not  strange  that  a  city  should  be  turned 
upside  down  and  inside  out  when  a  King  is  wed. 
Mr.  Collier,  the  American  Minister,  must  have 
been  as  much  pestered  as  the  Consul;  he  always 
had  time  for  us  though,  and  we  brought  away 
pleasant  memories  of  him  and  of  the  Legation 
where  we  were  hospitably  entertained. 

Of  all  our  friends,  the  Argentine  alone  held 
aloof  from  the  joyous  bustle;  a  week  before  the 
wedding  he  left  Madrid. 

"  I'm  off  for  Barcelona  till  all  this  pother's  over," 
he  said.  "  Come  with  me.  What  interest  have 
we  republicans  in  royal  marriages  ?  " 

*  The  interest  of  seeing  what  we  cannot  see  at 
home." 

"  Ah !  that's  the  difference  between  your  republic 
and  mine;  we  do  not  forget,  be  sure  that  you  do 
not." 

"  Don't  be  cryptic,"  said  Patsy,  "  I  never 
knew  what  a  good  republican  I  was  till  I  came  to 
Spain." 

6  Though  Spain  is  one  kingdom,  the  more  free 
people  in  the  world  is  the  Spaniard,"  Don  Jaime 


362      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

protested.  "  If  he  have  a  little  money  he  do  what 
he  like.  United  States  is  one  republic;  there  no 
man  can  do  what  he  like." 

"  He  can  think  as  he  likes,"  retorted  the  Argen- 
tine, then  persuasively  to  Patsy,  "  you've  seen 
enough  of  old  Spain  and  its  pageants.  Come  with 
me  to  Barcelona,  have  a  look  at  new  Spain. 
There's  a  great  fight  on  there,  that  really  is  the 
most  important  thing  that  is  happening  in  Spain." 

"  What  sort  of  a  fight  ?  " 

"  The  eternal  fight  between  Yesterday  and  To- 
morrow, between  new  ideas  and  old.  The  liberals 
are  making  a  brave  stand.  They  are  trying  to  get 
control  of  the  vast  sums  of  money  now  expended 
by  the  Church,  which  they  wish  to  use  for  the 
public  schools.  There  are  not  half  enough  schools 
to  go  round  even  in  Catalonia,  the  brains,  the 
nerve  center,  the  place  that  does  the  thinking  for 
Spain.  Only  thirty  per  cent  of  the  people  can 
read  and  write;  that's  not  enough." 

"  Too  much  monks,  nuns  and  priests  expulsed 
from  France,"  sighed  Don  Jaime;  "enough 
came  before  from  Cuba  and  Porto  Rico.  The 
priest  he  know  what  happen  in  every  man's  house 
before  the  husband." 

"  Which  is  worse  ?  "  asked  Patsy,  "  the  rule  of 
the  priest,  the  soldier,  or  the  shopkeeper  ?  " 

"  We  have   not   time    to   argue   that   question 


THE  BRIDE  COMES  363 

to-day,"  laughed  the  Argentine,  "  for  the  last  time 
will  you  come  to  Barcelona  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Patsy,  "  I  can  see  enough  of  the 
sort  of  fight  you  speak  of  at  home.  I  may  never 
have  another  chance  to  see  a  king  married." 


XV 
THE  KING'S  WEDDING 

MADRID  was  astir  early  the  King's  wedding 
morning.  We  left  the  Tower  at  seven 
o'clock,  in  order  to  get  to  the  Puerta  del  Sol  before 
the  cordon  of  troops  was  drawn.  We  were  to  see 
the  procession  from  the  Hotel  de  Paris  which 
stands  at  the  angle  of  the  Calle  Alcala  and  the 
Carerra  San  Jeronimo.  We  should  see  the  mar- 
riage pageant  cross  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  the  bull's- 
eye  of  the  city,  pass  down  the  Alcala  on  the  way 
from  the  palace  to  the  church,  and  return  by  the 
way  of  the  Jeronimo.  Our  friends,  the  Larz  An- 
dersons, had  invited  us  to  spend  the  day  with  them; 
we  arrived  in  time  for  early  coffee. 

"  How  could  you,"  said  J,  "  ask  Villegas  to  let 
us  see  the  show  from  the  Prado  when  you  had  this 
invitation  up  your  sleeve?  This  is  the  best  place 
in  the  city." 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  so  interesting  to  watch 
it  from  the  royal  museum." 

"So  did  a  few  hundred  other  people!     They 


THE  KING'S  WEDDING  365 

have  been  worrying  and  harrying  him  for  a  month. 
No  one  is  allowed  inside  the  Prado  to-day,  not 
even  the  head  porter." 

"  I  think  Don  Jose  might  make  an  exception 
for  his  family  and  —  for  us." 

"  Not  even  for  himself.  He  is  responsible  for 
the  safety  of  the  pictures.  Do  you  realize  what 
that  means  ?  " 

Villegas  is  responsible  for  one  of  the  world's 
greatest  treasures,  and  is  uneasy  about  the  safety 
of  the  building  that  contains  it.  No  wonder  Lucia 
complains  her  husband  does  not  sleep  as  well  as 
he  once  did. 

We  waited  for  the  procession  in  the  dining- 
room  of  the  Paris,  a  comfortable  low-ceiled  room 
with  a  suggestion  of  a  ship's  dining  cabin  about  it. 
A  table  had  been  engaged  for  us  in  the  window. 
The  last  guest  to  arrive  was  Don  Jaime,  who 
strolled  in  leisurely  after  the  streets  had  been 
closed  to  other  people  for  two  hours.  The  Don  had 
on  a  new  coat,  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  gardenia 
in  his  buttonhole;  it  was  pleasant  to  see  him 
dressed  for  once  as  he  deserved. 

"I  passed  the  nuncio  of  the  holy  Pap  driving 
to  the  church,"  he  said.  "They  will  not  tardy 
greatly  now." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  first  of  the  fifty  gala  wed- 
ding coaches  came  in  sight.  Though  of  varying 


366       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

degrees  of  splendor  they  were  all  on  the  same  gen- 
eral plan  of  those  we  had  seen  when  Sir  Maurice  de 
Bunsen  presented  his  credentials.  That  day  one 
Ambassador  and  his  suite  had  been  escorted  in 
state  to  the  palace;  to-day  the  whole  court  and  all 
the  wedding  guests  must  be  transported  from 
the  palace  to  the  church.  Could  the  wonderful 
carriages,  the  proud  horses,  the  ostrich  plumes, 
the  trappings,  wigs,  galloons  and  silk  stockings 
hold  out? 

They  did;  they  grew  finer  and  finer.  One 
coach  was  of  tortoise  shell,  one  blue  and  silver, 
one  purple  and  gold  lacquer.  All  the  shining  com- 
pany of  princes,  grandees,  ambassadors  extraor- 
dinary, court  ladies,  maids  of  honor,  was  mag- 
nificently conveyed  in  gala  coaches  drawn  by 
noble  horses  with  nodding  feathered  head-dresses, 
all  attended  by  grooms  in  satin  liveries.  It  was  a 
torrent  of  dazzling  splendor  that  wearied  the  eyes 
and  stunned  the  imagination. 

"  I  have  been  forty  years  in  diplomacy,"  said  a 
dapper  old  gentleman  with  a  single  eyeglass,  who 
sat  at  the  next  table;  "  I  have  seen  most  of  the 
royal  marriages  of  my  time;  I  never  saw  anything 
to  compare  to  this." 

The  bride  rode  with  her  mother  in  the  tortoise- 
shell  coach;  they  were  talking  together  as  they 
passed.  Princess  Beatrice  looked  pale  and  grave, 


THE  KING'S  WEDDING  367 

the  bride  happy,  expectant,  calm,  as  every  bride 
should  look.  In  the  last  coach,  a  marvel  of  crystal 
and  gold,  rode  the  King  behind  eight  proud 
cream-colored  horses.  They  ambled  daintily 
along,  tossing  and  tossing  their  heads  so  the  long 
ostrich  plumes  nodded  in  time  to  their  high  step- 
ping. Where,  when,  had  we  seen  horses  like  these 
before?  While  we  waited  for  the  wedding  party 
to  come  back  from  church,  I  remembered. 

It  was  in  Scotland  just  ten  years  ago  this  August, 
the  season  when  Ben  Marone  puts  on  his  imperial 
purple  veil  of  heather,  that  we  stood  together  out- 
side the  inn  at  Braemar  waiting  to  see  the  royal 
carriage  from  Balmoral  pass.  Soon  four,  perfectly 
matched,  cream-colored  ponies  —  very  like  the 
King  of  Spain's  horses  —  came  racing  in  sight 
at  the  top  of  their  speed,  drawing  a  large,  plain, 
old-fashioned  carriage.  On  the  box  sat  a  High- 
lander in  tartan  and  filibegs. 

"  *  Twull  be  the  Queen  and  Princess  Beatrice," 
said  one  of  the  villagers. 

The  carriage  came  within  our  line  of  vision. 
"  Ay,  'tis  her  Majesty." 

On  the  back  seat  sat  an  old  woman  in  a  shabby 
black  cloak  and  bonnet,  a  younger  lady  in  black 
beside  her.  The  Queen  was  old  and  very  tired  of 
state  and  ceremony;  she  looked  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left,  but  straight  before  her,  as  the 


368      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

villagers  pulled  forelock  or  curtsied.  She  seemed 
to  be  thinking  deeply,  was  perhaps  looking  into 
the  future.  If  she  could  have  foreseen  that  her 
little  granddaughter  —  the  one  for  whose  future 
she  might  have  felt  the  most  concern  —  would 
assume  the  name  she  had  made  illustrious,  would 
she  have  been  pleased  ? 

*  They  will  be  coming  back  from  church  in  a 
moment."  Patsy,  whom  we  had  not  seen  that 
morning,  brought  the  news.  "  I  saw  them  go  into 
San  Jeronimo's.  The  bride  wore  a  white  dress  like 
others  I  have  seen,  only  longer;  her  veil  was  lace  — 
not  that  flimsy  stuff;  it  did  not  cover  her  face." 
He  was  proud  of  having  observed,  and  remembered 
so  much. 

Soon  after  we  heard  the  joyous  marriage  music, 
and  the  long,  glittering  procession  began  to  pass 
again,  much  in  the  same  manner  as  before,  only 
the  Queen  sat  beside  the  King  in  the  crystal  and 
gold  coach  with  the  big  crown  on  the  top.  As  they 
passed  through  the  Puerta  del  Sol  they  bowed  and 
smiled  to  the  people;  their  happy  young  faces 
were  flushed  with  heat  and  excitement.  When 
the  coach  had  disappeared  down  the  Calle  Mayor 
I  confessed  my  plan  to  the  company. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  you,  to  slip  round  by 
the  back  streets  to  the  Youngs'  house,  opposite 
the  palace.  From  their  windows  I  can  see  the 


THE  KING'S  WEDDING  369 

procession  turn  from  the  Calle  Mayor  into  the 
palace  yard  and  drive  up  to  the  door.'* 

"  Do  not  let  her  go,"  I  heard  Don  Jaime  say 
emphatically  in  Spanish;  he  added  something  that 
I  did  not  hear. 

"  It  will  be  veiy  hot,"  said  Lucia. 

"  Ninety  in  the  shade,"  Patsy  agreed.  "  One 
of  us  will  have  to  go  with  you." 

"  Luncheon  is  ready,"  said  our  hostess. 

"  Iced  melon  in  the  hand  is  worth  a  good  deal 
in  the  bush,"  said  J.,  "  but  of  course  I  will  take  you 
if  you  really  want  to  go." 

"  It's  pretty  jolly  here,"  murmured  Patsy. 

"  Champagne  ?  "  whispered  the  waiter. 

"  Take  at  least  a  biscuit,  and  you  must  drink 
the  bride's  health  before  you  go,"  said  the  prince 
of  hosts. 

It  seemed  too  bad  to  break  up  the  party.  They 
were  evidently  serious  about  not  letting  me  go  alone. 
I  yielded  and  stayed. 

The  restaurant  was  filling  up  with  men  in  uni- 
form and  ladies  in  court  dress  who  had  come  from 
the  wedding;  most  of  the  people  staying  at  the 
hotel  were  of  the  diplomatic  world.  At  a  table 
near  us  sat  Mrs.  Cartwright,  looking  as  handsome 
in  her  white  court  dress  as  when  Villegas  painted 
her  when  she  was  a  bride.  At  another  table  the 
King's  former  tutor,  Senor  Merry  del  Val,  a 


370      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

handsome,  distinguished  man  (brother  of  the  Car- 
dinal), and  his  charming  wife.  It  certainly  was 
very  jolly  in  that  pleasant  company,  talking  over 
the  dresses,  the  coaches  and  the  coming  fetes. 

If  I  had  not  stayed  at  the  Hotel  Paris,  if  I  had 
gone  to  the  Calle  Mayor,  I  should  have  seen  the 
gay  procession  of  coaches,  with  the  attendant 
postilions  and  palfreniers  walking  on  either  side, 
turn  into  the  palace  yard  one  by  one,  till  there  was 
only  left  in  the  Calle  Mayor  for  the  crowd  to  gape 
at  the  coche  de  respecto  and  the  King's  coach. 
Then  suddenly  out  of  the  heavens  fall  what  at 
first  looked  like  a  great  bouquet,  not  unlike  those 
that  had  been  showered  down  from  window  and 
balcony  all  along  the  route;  then  a  blinding  flash, 
a  dreadful  crash,  a  cloud  of  smoke;  and  when  that 
cleared  away  the  crystal  coach  shattered,  the  brave 
horses  staggering  on  a  pace  or  two,  the  King  look- 
ing from  the  wrecked  coach  and  crying: 

"  It  is  nothing;   we  are  neither  of  us  hurt." 

"  Nothing  ?  "  But  that  is  what  King  Umberto 
said,  when  he  fell  mortally  stabbed  at  Monza. 

The  wheel  horses  reeled  and  fell,  done  to  death, 
their  shining  sides,  their  white  plumes  all  dabbled 
with  blood.  The  King  jumped  out  —  his  coat  torn 
from  his  back  —  and  helped  out  the  bride.  They 
were  neither  of  them  hurt,  as  he  had  said.  The 
Queen  was  pale  but  wonderfully  calm  and  brave,  — 


THE  KING'S  WEDDING  371 

till  she  looked  down  and  saw  the  hem  of  her  wed- 
ding dress  covered  with  blood!  Then  through  the 
distracted  crowd,  a  small  phalanx  of  resolute  men 
pushed  their  way  to  the  front,  tall  men  in  uni- 
form, who  surrounded  the  Queen,  walked  with 
her  through  the  awful  carnage  down  the  Calle 
Mayor,  across  the  palace  yard  to  the  door  of  her 
new  home. 

Who  were  they?  Where  did  they  come  from? 
Some  said  they  were  the  staff  of  the  British  Em- 
bassy, who  had  seen  the  accident  from  the  Youngs' 
windows;  some  that  they  were  six  tall  life-guards- 
men, who  had  played  some  part  in  the  pageant. 
The  important  thing  is,  they  were  Englishmen; 
they  and  Sir  Maurice  de  Bunsen,  the  English  Am- 
bassador, appeared,  as  if  by  magic,  at  the  moment 
they  were  wanted. 

No  whisper  of  the  tragedy  reached  the  Paris.  In 
the  restaurant  the  gaily  dressed  people  lingered  at 
the  tables,  toasting  the  bride.  Our  party  was  one 
of  the  first  to  break  up.  A  friend  drove  me  to  the 
Consulate,  where  finding  the  Consul  had  not  re- 
turned, I  waited  to  see  him.  He  came  in  shortly, 
white  as  a  ghost,  and  cried  out  for  a  glass  of  water. 
From  Mr.  Summers  I  heard  the  first  account  of  the 
horror.  He  had  seen  the  bodies  of  the  innocent 
people  killed  by  the  bomb  carried  by.  He  had 
counted  eight  soldiers,  seventeen  civilians,  all 


372      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

strangers  to  him.  One  he  had  known  by  sight,  a 
little  girl,  the  five-year-old  daughter  of  a  great 
house.  He  had  seen  her  a  few  minutes  before 
standing  on  a  neighboring  balcony  with  her 
parents.  "  Such  a  little  body,"  he  said;  "  where 
the  face  had  been,  there  was  a  twist  of  child's 
curls,  nothing  more;  the  face  was  gone." 

What  awful  sights  I  had  been  spared!  I  car- 
ried the  news  home  to  the  Tower.  Villegas  had 
not  yet  come  back,  the  others  had  heard  nothing. 

Lucia  clapped  her  hands  to  her  heart  when  she 
heard  of  the  outrage.  "  God  grant,"  she  said 
with  white  lips,  "  that  it  was  not  an  Italian  who 
threw  the  bomb."  She  is  a  Roman;  her  first 
fear,  her  first  hope  were  for  Italy. 

"  What  was  that  thing  Don  Jaime  said  to  you 
at  the  Paris,  when  I  proposed  going  to  the  Youngs' 
house?"  I  asked  Patsy. 

He  said  "  Do  not  let  her  go;  the  police  fear  that 
a  bomb  will  be  thrown  in  the  Calle  Mayor." 

If  the  police  knew  so  much,  why  could  they  not 
have  averted  the  horror? 

This  was  never  explained. 


XVI 
WEDDING  GUESTS 

1  J~  OS  Reyes!  los  Reyes!  Bueno,  Buenol"    Don 

J-J  Jaime  waved  his  sombrero  wildly  over  his 

head  and  ran  across  the  wet  grass,  followed  by 

Patsy,  who  had  snatched  off  his  Panama  and  was 

roaring  as  if  this  were  a  football  game: 

"  Hip,  hip,  hurrah !  The  Queen,  the  Queen !  " 
It  was  the  morning  after  the  wedding;  con- 
sidering the  hour  —  it  was  still  early  —  there  were 
a  great  many  people  sitting  in  the  chairs  or  pacing 
slowly  under  the  trees  of  the  Recoletos.  All 
Madrid  was  drawing  its  breath,  trying  to  steady 
its  nerve  by  a  little  air  and  exercise.  Without 
warning,  without  escort,  the  King  and  Queen 
whirled  by  in  an  open  automobile.  The  bride  and 
groom  had  slipped  out  of  the  palace  and  had  been 
driven  to  the  hospital  to  see  the  eighty  people 
who  were  wounded  by  the  bomb  that  had  been 
meant  to  kill  them.  They  had  flashed  through  the 
Puerta  del  Sol,  through  the  most  crowded  quarter 
of  the  city,  and  were  now  returning  to  the  palace, 
attended  only  by  a  chauffeur. 


374      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  Bravo  va! "  cried  the  seller  of  orgeat  from  his 
booth;  then,  yielding  to  enthusiasm,  he  vaulted 
over  the  counter,  left  the  till  unprotected,  and 
joined  in  the  chase. 

"  Viva,  viva!  "  The  crowd  in  the  Recoletos 
lost  its  head;  women  waved  parasols,  men  hats 
or  handkerchiefs.  The  applause  was  fine,  spon- 
taneous, electrical. 

"  They  're  game!  "  cried  Patsy.  "  He's  a  man, 
and  I  guess  she's  a  good  deal  of  a  woman." 

They  looked  so  brave,  the  blonde  bride  so  grave, 
so  loyal,  so  fresh,  that  we  were  all  moved;  there 
was  heart  in  the  cries  of  viva,  bueno,  bravo,  that 
followed  them,  applause  of  a  very  different  calibre 
from  the  rather  perfunctory  toasting  and  hurrahing 
of  yesterday. 

There  was  but  one  dissentient  voice.  I  heard 
the  old  gentleman  who  had  been  forty  years  in 
diplomacy  say:  "It  is  against  all  precedent! 
Without  even  an  escort!  It  will  be  much  criticised." 

It  may  have  been  criticised  at  Court;  the  people 
liked  it.  Don  Alfonzo  is  wise  enough  to  know 
that  the  applause  of  the  gallery  is  more  important 
to  the  actor  than  the  appreciation  of  the  stalls. 

The  wedding  fetes  lasted  a  week.  The  gala 
performance  at  the  opera,  the  bull-fight,  the  battle 
of  flowers,  the  balloon  race,  the  ball  at  the  palace 
and  all  the  more  private  festivities  such  as  dinners 


WEDDING  GUESTS  375 

and  luncheons,  had  been  carefully  planned,  so  that 
no  hour  should  hang  heavy  on  the  wedding  guests. 
Time  had  to  be  made  for  one  more  function,  the 
funeral  of  the  officers  and  soldiers  killed  by  the 
bomb.  It  took  place  the  very  day  after  the  dis- 
aster. I  did  not  see  that  black  pageant  of  death,  I 
wish  I  had;  but  J.  saw  and  told  me  about  it. 

At  very  nearly  the  same  hour  as  that  gorgeous 
marriage  procession,  there  passed  over  the  same 
ground,  through  the  Puerta  del  Sol  and  down  the 
A  leal <i,  a  long  string  of  black  hearses.  The  first 
two,  the  coaches  of  honor,  were  splendid  with 
sable  trappings;  on  the  top  lay  the  arms  of  the 
dead  officers.  The  King,  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
and  most  of  the  other  royalties  walked  in  the  pro- 
cession that  followed. 

In  spite  of  the  gloom  cast  by  the  dreadful  dis- 
aster, the  f£tes  went  on  with  slight  modifications, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  The  ball  at  the 
palace  was  changed  into  a  reception.  Dancing 
when  so  many  mourned  their  dead  was  out  of  the 
question.  It  was  decided  that  the  King  and  Queen 
must  not  appear  at  the  battle  of  flowers.  It  was 
too  dangerous;  the  deadly  bouquet  that  masqued 
the  bomb  held  a  warning. 

For  perhaps  a  day  there  was  a  panicky  feeling. 
The  crowd  was  nervous,  keyed  up;  it  would  take 
nothing  to  make  a  stampede.  I  was  never  allowed 


376      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

to  go  out  alone  lest  "  something  should  happen.** 
Very  soon,  however,  Madrid  recovered  its  tone. 
Crowds  of  orderly,  well-dressed  people  thronged 
the  streets  day  and  night,  admiring  the  magnifi- 
cent illuminations,  the  splendid  decorations.  Where 
other  cities  use  bunting  and  cotton  cloth,  Madrid 
used  satin,  silk,  damask,  brocade.  The  fronts 
of  the  houses  were  brave  with  rich  embroideries 
and  priceless  tapestries.  The  famous  ruby  velvet 
hangings  covered  the  fa9ade  of  the  Duke  Cestus* 
palace,  the  pattern  of  the  silver  blazonry  outlined 
at  night  with  electric  light.  During  the  whole 
week  those  priceless  treasures  hung  exposed  to  the 
burning  sun,  or  to  the  chance  of  rain,  which  for- 
tunately never  came. 

Villegas  was  busier  than  ever,  devising  schemes 
for  decoration,  giving  advice  about  a  costume, 
receiving  a  distinguished  visitor.  He  was  con- 
tinually summoned  to  the  Prado  to  show  the  pic- 
tures to  one  or  other  of  the  wedding  guests.  Some 
days  he  hardly  did  more  than  look  into  the  studio, 
where  Cisera  always  had  his  brushes  ready,  and 
Angoscia,  the  model,  waited,  sometimes  all  day,, 
to  pose  for  one  little  half  hour. 

One  morning  we  met  the  Maestro  on  the  stairs  — 
J.  had  the  studio  next  door  to  his.  "  Just  in  time !  " 
cried  Villegas.  "  I  was  afraid  I  should  not  get 
you.  They  have  telephoned  from  the  palace  that 


VILLEGAS   IX    HIS  STUDIO. 


WEDDING  GUESTS  377 

we  must  meet  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales 
at  the  museum.  They  haven't  given  me  time 
enough  even  to  go  home  and  put  on  a  black  coat." 

Villegas  had  on  his  funny  little  blue  studio 
jacket,  buttoned  up  to  the  neck,  a  jacket  not  quite 
like  any  other;  he  designed  it  for  himself  when  he 
was  a  student.  I  never  saw  him  in  any  other  coat, 
except  when  on  Court  duty. 

It  was  so  late  that  Villegas  and  J.  jumped  into  a 
cab;  Patsy  and  I  followed  them  on  foot. 

*  We  are  in  time,"  said  Patsy,  as  we  drew  near 
the  Prado;  "  there  are  the  red  legs." 

Each  of  the  King's  guests  was  provided  with  two 
carriages,  a  court  carriage  and  a  state-department 
carriage.  The  every-day  carriages,  in  which  they 
drove  about  in  the  morning  and  did  their  shopping 
or  sight-seeing,  were  handsome  but  simple  landaus 
with  the  royal  coat-of-arms  on  the  panels.  The 
main  distinction  was  the  red  stockings  and  blue 
velvet  breeches  of  the  servants.  Patsy  always  kept 
a  sharp  lookout  for  the  red  legs. 

There  were  more  people  than  usual  going  into 
the  museum,  most  of  them  country  folk  come  to 
Madrid  for  the  fetes.  Patsy  and  I  stood  in  the 
crowd  and  watched  the  Prince  and  Princess  get 
out  of  the  carriage  with  Mr.  Keppel,  the  equerry. 
Villegas  met  the  Prince  at  the  door  and  asked  leave 
to  present  his  English  pupil  (J.),  Then  they  all 


378      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

disappeared  together  into  the  Prado,  Villegas 
leading  the  way  with  the  Princess.  She  is  tall, 
slender,  with  pretty  yellow  hair  and  an  air  of 
great  distinction;  there  is  a  strong  family  resem- 
blance between  her  and  the  young  Queen. 

Villegas  said  that  the  Princess,  like  most  of  the 
royalties  he  escorts  over  the  museum,  was  greatly 
interested  in  the  royal  portraits.  When  the  pic- 
tures are  artistically  important  like  the  Velasquez, 
the  Moros,  even  the  Goyas,  he  is  able  to  tell  all 
about  the  originals;  but  when  they  are  of  mediocre 
value,  by  unimportant  painters,  poor  Villegas  is 
harrassed  with  fear  lest  he  may  not  always  give 
the  right  name,  date  and  title. 

The  Prince  admired  immensely,  and  seemed 
to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  Velasquez  "  Siege  of 
Breda."  When  the  magnanimous  attitude  of  the 
conqueror  was  pointed  out  —  he  cannot  take  the 
keys  of  the  city  because  both  hands  are  occupied, 
the  Prince  said: 

"  That  was  so  nice  of  him !  " 

He  paused  a  long  time  before  Paul  Veronese's 
picture  of  the  Marriage  of  Cana.  On  the  table 
before  the  Saviour  is  a  dish  of  meat  that,  the  Prince 
pointed  out,  resembled  a  roast  sucking  pig. 
"  But,"  he  said,  "  they  were  all  Jews;  they  would 
never  have  eaten  pork!  " 

J.  said  this  showed  that  the  Prince  really  looked 


THE   SPINNERS.     Velasquez 


WEDDING  GUESTS  379 

at  the  pictures  and  thought  about  them;  many 
of  the  people  he  has  helped  Villegas  take  through 
the  museum  walk  through  as  if  it  were  a  duty  to  be 
got  over  as  soon  as  possible.  The  Prince  asked 
how  much  various  of  the  pictures  were  worth. 
He  studied  carefully  St.  Paul  and  St.  Gerome  in 
the  desert,  by  Velasquez  (the  dear  one  with  the 
ravens  flying  to  the  hermitage  carrying  loaves  of 
bread  in  their  beaks  to  feed  the  unthrifty  old 
saints) . 

"  How  much  is  that  picture  worth  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Almost  anything,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Villegas  says  royalties  never  know  what  things 
cost.  They  may  have  a  sense  of  the  value  of 
money,  but  no  sense  of  the  value  of  things. 

The  Prince  lingered  longest  in  the  portrait  room. 
Well  he  might  —  it  contains  some  of  the  consum- 
mate portraits  of  the  world ! 

*  That  is  very  fine,"  said  the  Prince,  pointing  to 
Van  Dyke's  portrait  of  himself  with  his  patron 
the  Earl  of  Bristol;  "  and  that  Cardinal  of  Pavia 
by  Raphael,  and  this  Holbein.  Yet  one  hears  more 
about  John  Sargent's  portraits.  I  don't  think 
them  as  good  as  these,  do  you  ?  " 

It  was  very  hot  in  the  Ribera  room,  where  they 
had  lagged  a  little  behind  the  others.  J.  took  off 
his  hat  to  mop  his  brow,  and  for  the  sake  of  being 
cooler  did  not  put  it  on  again. 


380       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  Keep  on  your  hat,"  said  the  Prince.  Supposing 
this  was  merely  politeness  J.  forgot  all  about  it, 
and  a  few  minutes  after  did  the  same  thing  again. 

"  Please  put  on  your  hat,"  said  Mr.  Keppel; 
"  we  don't  want  to  attract  attention  to  the  party." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  laughed  the  Prince  lightly,  "  we 
don't  want  to  attract  attention!  " 

That,  then,  was  the  reason  such  short  notice 
of  the  visit  had  been  given  —  they  did  not  wish  to 
attract  attention!  The  only  person  who  showed 
the  least  nervousness  was  the  detective  from 
Scotland  Yard,  who  followed  with  the  Chief 
of  the  Madrid  police.  The  detective,  J.  said, 
"  was  in  a  blue  funk;  he  seemed  to  see  a  nihilist  in 
everybody  who  came  within  bomb-shot  of  the 
Prince."  While  they  were  lingering  in  the  Ribera 
room,  the  detective  begged  Mr.  Keppel  that  the 
Prince  should  keep  up  with  the  Princess  and 
Villegas;  "  they  must  all  keep  together;  it  was  too 
dangerous,  too  difficult  for  the  chief  of  police  to 
watch  them  if  they  scattered." 

We  heard  that  the  English  police  had  informed 
the  Spanish  before  the  outrage  that  a  man  had  been 
observed  practising  throwing  various  articles  from 
a  balcony,  as  if  gauging  the  distance  to  the  street. 

The  shadow  of  fear  darkened  every  sunny  hour 
of  these  festival  days.  It  was  with  us  when  we 
started  at  eight  o'clock  one  golden  June  morning 


WEDDING  GUESTS  381 

to  drive  to  the  review,  held  on  the  Castilian  plain 
eight  miles  from  Madrid.  We  had  tickets  for  the 
grand  stand  of  the  Senate.  We  were  a  little  late; 
by  the  time  we  arrived  the  seats  were  all  taken. 
We  were  turning  sadly  away  when  Patsy  espied 
Don  Luis. 

*  Here  is  the  Key!  "  he  cried.  '  He  will  get  us 
in  somewhere."  Don  Luis  was  called  the  Key 
because  he  contrived  to  open  every  door  to  us. 
How  did  he  manage  it  ?  It  was  not  with  a  silver 
key;  Don  Luis  was  very  poor.  He  had  an  uncle 
who  stood  high  in  office;  he  was  never  caught 
without  the  uncle's  card,  the  open  sesame  of  many 
doors.  This  time  it  opened  the  military  tribune, 
where  we  found  admirable  places.  This  tribune 
was  less  crowded  than  the  others;  most  of  the 
military  were  busy  with  the  manoeuvres.  It  was 
a  morning  of  extraordinary  emotions;  there  was  a 
thrill  of  controlled  excitement  in  the  air;  every 
face  wore  a  smile,  every  heart  held  a  fear.  The 
royalties  were  all  present;  the  young  Queen,  look- 
ing fresh  and  rosy,  drove  by  with  her  mother-in- 
law.  Don  Alfonzo,  in  the  uniform  of  an  officer  of 
halberdiers,  rode  at  the  wheel  of  her  carriage. 
All  through  the  fetes  the  young  lovers  were  the 
centre  of  interest;  we  saw  them  so  often  that  we 
grew  to  feel  quite  intimate  with  them. 

All  the  ambassadors  extraordinary  were  there, 


382      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

and  all  the  royalties.  We  saw  the  Prince  and 
Princess  of  Wales,  the  Crown  Prince  of  Sweden, 
the  Russian  Grand  Duke  Vladimir,  the  Duke  of 
Genoa,  Prince  Albert  of  Prussia,  and  Prince  Louis 
Philippe,  the  young  Crown  Prince  of  Portugal;  a 
lovely  looking  lad,  about  whose  future  consort,  young 
as  he  was,  the  court  gossips  were  already  busy.* 

We  trembled  for  these  great  people,  come  to- 
gether from  every  part  of  the  world  to  take  part  in 
the  wedding  celebration;  our  hearts  were  full  of 
fear  and  pity  for  them. 

"  It  seems,"  said  Patsy,  "  as  if  the  Reign  of 
Terror  had  returned,  only  instead  of  being  in 
France  alone  it  is  over  the  whole  world.  A  list  has 
been  found  of  Anarchy's  next  victims,  headed  by 
"  he  whispered  three  great  names. 

*The  Grown  Prince  of  Portugal  and  his  father,  Don  Carlos  the  King, 
were  killed  in  the  winter  of  1908.  The  dreadful  murder  was  curiously 
glossed  over  by  the  newspapers  as  a  "  political  crime,"  and  outside  of 
Portugal  at  least  has  apparently  been  quickly  forgotten.  The  boy  was 
a  sweet-faced  youth  with  charming  manners.-  I  cannot  think  of  him 
without  remembering  the  superstition  that  "  whom  the  gods  love  die 
young."  As  I  look  back  at  those  fabulous  fetes  in  the  light  of  the 
dreadful  double  regicide,  there  seems  something  curiously  suggestive  and 
characteristic  in  the  representatives  sent  by  the  different  monarchs  to  the 
King  of  Spain's  wedding.  It  must  be  an  openly  accepted  fact  that  there 
is  great  risk  in  attending  such  a  celebration.  The  Kaiser  thriftily  sent 
his  uncle,  the  Czar  sent  another  uncle,  Russia,  Germany,  Austria,  Italy, 
all  sent  old  men,  uncles  or  cousins  of  the  sovereign,  whose  lives  were  not 
particularly  valuable.  England  (so  like  England)  sent  the  King's  only 
son;  Sweden  sent  the  heir  to  the  throne,  and  Portugal,  unsuspicious, 
trustful  in  the  character  of  its  solid,  serious,  law-abiding  people,  sent 
the  heir  to  the  throne.  The  countries  that  have  suffered  most  from  the 
assassins  of  Anarchy  —  Austria,  Russia,  and  Italy  —  risked  only  a 
small  counter  on  the  dreadful  hazard. 


WEDDING  GUESTS  383 

Meanwhile  the  infantry  regiments,  the  back- 
bone of  the  army,  were  marching  by.  The  men 
were  well  dressed,  well  looking,  full  of  dash  and 
vigor;  they  marched  worse  than  any  troops  I  ever 
saw. 

*  When  it  comes  to  the  drill,  the  steady  hammer, 
hammer,  hammer,  of  the  drill  sergeant,  they  haven't 
it  in  them,"  said  Patsy.  ;*  They  may  get  it,  they 
haven't  it  now." 

The  music  was  very  bad;  the  military  bands 
lacked  the  same  thing  that  the  soldiers  lacked,  — 
training,  the  stiff,  hard,  daily  grind,  the  thing  that 
makes  the  difference  between  every  man  and  his 
brother,  between  every  nation  and  her  sister. 
What  remains,  if  marching  and  music  are  bad? 
The  glory  and  insolence  of  youth  in  those  squad- 
rons of  cavalry  and  artillery  dashing  by.  The 
vast  arid  plain  soon  became  like  a  battlefield  as 
soldiers  describe  it  and  as  painters  of  battles  try 
to  paint  it.  The  bands  of  cavalry  began  to  pass 
slowly,  the  officers  in  advance,  picked  men,  with 
picked  horses,  as  gallant  a  troop  as  I  ever  saw. 
The  officers  rode  with  the  naked  sword  raised  as  if 
for  a  charge.  Just  after  they  passed  our  stand,  the 
pace  quickened  from  a  trot  to  a  canter,  to  a  mad 
gallop,  as  each  troop  swung  short  round  an  imagin- 
ary curve  and  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 
The  dust  they  raised  gave  the  effect  of  dust  and 


384       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

smoke  combined.  A  real  battle-field  must  look 
like  a  thing  seen  on  the  stage  with  transparencies 
of  dust  and  smoke.  Through  the  veil  of  gray  haze, 
we  caught  glimpses  of  distant  squadrons  marching 
and  countermarching,  pack  mules  with  mountain 
batteries,  engineers  with  field  telegraph  apparatus 
and  pontoon  bridges,  long  boats  made  very  squat 
and  solid  so  they  will  not  easily  capsize,  and  longer 
planks  to  lay  upon  the  boats. 

'  They  can  bridge  a  river  in  fifteen  minutes/' 
said  Don  Luis. 

'  The  Guadalquiver  or  the  Manzanares,  per- 
haps," murmured  Patsy,  "  hardly  the  Amazon  or 
the  Mississippi.  These  pontoons  are  metal,  the 
latest  thing.  Ours  are  of  wood;  we  shall  soon 
have  them  of  metal  like  these  Spanish  ones. 

"  Who  told  you  so  much  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  heard  Lieutenant  Grant  say  so,'*  said  Patsy. 
"  Didn't  you  see  him  drive  by  with  our  Ambas- 
sador? I  should  like  to  ask  him  if  this  looks  to 
him  as  it  does  to  me,  like  a  miniature  Gettysburg." 

We  were  thankful  when  the  review  was  safely 
over  and  everybody  gone  home  safe  and  sound.  It 
seemed  to  us  the  most  dangerous  of  all  the  fetes. 
The  distance  covered  was  so  great  that  to  protect 
all  these  royal  people  must  have  been  well-nigh 
impossible. 

!'  Lightning  never  strikes    twice  in   the   same 


WEDDING  GUESTS  385 

place,"  said  Patsy.     "  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to 
assume  that  there  is  no  danger." 

The  most  original  of  all  the  fetes  was  the  balloon 
race.  Engracia  sent  us  invitations  to  the  Park 
of  the  Society  of  Aeronauts  to  see  the  start.  We 
found  all  Madrid  in  the  large  enclosure;  what 
was  more  important,  we  found  Engracia  in  the 
midst  of  that  crowd  of  smartly  dressed  people. 

'  The  race,"  Engracia  told  us,  "  has  been  ar- 
ranged as  a  compliment  to  the  Queen.  She  and 
the  King  will  see  it  from  their  windows.  All  the 
balloons  will  pass  over  the  palace." 

*  Wind  and  weather  permitting,"  laughed  Patsy. 
"  Isn't  this  the  latest  word  in  the  way  of  Sport  ? 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  New  York  or  Paris." 

"  Claro!  "  the  Madrilena  flashed  out  at  him. 
'  You  think  Spain  is  behind  the  rest  of  the  world, 
yet  you  must  come  to  Madrid  to  see  a  balloon  race." 
The  centres  of  attraction  were  the  thirteen  bal- 
loons entered  for  the  race.     Each  monster  air  ball 
swaying  in  the  stay  ropes  was  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  people.     Engracia  led  the  way  to   one 
where  the  crowd  was  thickest. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  to  have  a  friend  in  every 
place,  even  in  the  inferno,"  she  said.  "  I  have  a 
friend  who  is  going  up  in  that  balloon.  It  must 
be  terrible  to  go  alone!  " 

Way   was   made   for   Engracia;    Patsy   and   I 


386      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

followed,  and  took  a  good  look  at  the  balloon  at 
close  quarters.  It  was  shaped  like  a  globe  with  a 
stovepipe  coming  out  of  the  bottom.  The  basket 
car  was  small  and  high,  coming  up  to  the  armpits 
of  Engracia's  friend,  a  man  of  average  size.  The 
color  of  the  balloon  was  like  a  modern  warship's 
neutral  gray,  the  tint  most  easily  confounded  with 
cloud  or  smoke.  Patsy  peeped  inside  the  basket, 
hoping  to  see  some  interesting  apparatus  for  steer- 
ing or  at  least  guiding  the  flight. 

"  Nothing  inside,"  he  reported,  "  except  a  few 
bags  of  sand  just  like  those:  "  he  pointed  to  the 
sand  bags  hanging  from  the  outer  edge  of  the 
basket.  *  That,"  he  showed  a  small  instrument 
shaped  like  a  pedometer  hanging  in  the  shrouds, 
"  is  to  measure  the  distance,  and  that  to  gauge  the 
velocity  of  the  wind." 

"  What,  nothing  more  ?  No  modern  contrivance 
to  help  them  navigate  the  air  ?  " 

"  Nothing  but  sand,"  said  Patsy.  "  It  takes  a 
lot  of  two  kinds  of  sand." 

It  was  such  a  breathless  afternoon :  it  seemed  as 
if  there  could  not  be  wind  enough  to  lift  the  great 
captive  swaying  awkwardly  in  its  ropes.  The 
breeze  must  have  come  up  without  our  noticing  it, 
for  there  was  a  sudden  commotion  in  the  crowd, 
and  we  were  all  ordered  to  stand  back.  Engracia 
waved  a  last  adieu  to  her  friend. 


WEDDING  GUESTS  387 

"Abourl "'  she  cried,  as  the  balloon  shot  up 
to  a  great  height.  "  If  he  had  only  taken  some  one 
with  him! "  There  was  something  terrible  in 
the  loneliness  of  that  solitary  figure  in  the  balloon. 

In  a  few  seconds  another  balloon  shot  up;  it 
was  perhaps  lighter  than  the  first,  for  it  seemed  to 
overtake  it  immediately.  The  two  great  balloons 
drifted  nearer  and  nearer  to  each  other;  when  just 
above  our  heads  they  noiselessly  collided. 

"  Por  Dios!  "  cried  Engracia,  and  hid  her  face. 

There  was  a  slight  depression  in  each  balloon, 
then  they  sprang  apart,  like  two  vast  rubber  balls, 
and  sailed  off,  each  in  a  slightly  different  direction, 
neither  the  worse  for  the  collision. 

Taking  advantage  of  the  light  breeze,  the  remain- 
ing eleven  balloons  were  loosed  and  shot  up  to  a 
great  height.  Soon  the  whole  fleet  looked  no 
larger  than  so  many  toy  balloons.  We  watched 
them  sail  away  over  the  palace  of  the  King,  where 
the  young  Queen  was  watching  for  them,  forgetting 
perhaps  for  a  moment  her  terror,  as  the  balloons 
sailed  over  the  palace,  over  the  bare  plains  of  Cas- 
tile, towards  the  Guadarramas,  and  the  grim 
Escorial,  her  last  home. 

In  the  Park  of  the  Society  of  Aeronauts,  there 
was  a  deal  of  jesting,  as  the  toy  balloons  sent  off 
by  Engracia  and  a  dozen  other  ladies,  followed  the 
real  ones. 


388      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  They  all  behaved,"  said  Patsy,  as  we  drove 
home  after  the  race,  "  as  if  there  were  no  such 
things  as  bombs;  courage,  it  seems,  is  still  an 
aristocratic  virtue." 

The  night  of  the  reception  at  the  palace  was  very 
dark.  The  sky  looked  like  black  velvet;  the 
streets  blazed  with  clusters,  chains,  pyramids  of 
light.  The  Puerta  del  Sol  was  a  sea  of  sparkling 
flames,  that  shone  on  triumphal  arches,  flags, 
flowers,  and  the  entwined  letters  A  and  V. 

The  servants  at  the  palace  recognized  Villegas. 
They  did  not  even  look  at  our  invitation,  but 
motioned  us  to  pass  with  him  through  that  door 
we  knew  so  well  from  the  outside.  We  found 
ourselves  in  a  big  shining  hall  at  the  foot  of  the 
escalara  principal,  a  magnificent  double  staircase, 
guarded  by  fierce  marble  lions  and  fiercer  halber- 
diers standing  on  each  step,  their  halberds  touch- 
ing, making  a  line  of  flashing  steel  on  either  side, 
just  as  the  Argentine  described  —  a  sight  "  well 
worth  seeing  indeed!  "  We  lingered  at  the  foot 
of  the  stair  to  watch  some  of  the  people  pass 
up. 

*  Who  is  that  ?  "  I  asked,  as  a  lady  of  superb 
bearing  walked  slowly  up  the  stair.  "  I  think  she 
is  the  most  distinguished  looking  woman  I  have 
seen  in  Spain." 


WEDDING  GUESTS  S89 

"  That  is  the  Duquesa  San  Carlos,"  said  En- 
gracia,  who  had  just  come  in. 

"  And  who  is  that  ?  "  A  beautiful  Saxon  woman 
in  white  satin  and  rubies  was  passing. 

*  That  is  one  of  the  English  party,  Lady  Castle- 
reagh." 

As  each  Grandee  or  Ambassador  passed,  the 
halberdiers  saluted  by  striking  the  marble  stair 
with  their  halberds.  It  had  a  fine  effect,  like  a 
peal  of  thunder  or  a  salvo  of  artillery.  When  we 
had  seen  a  few  of  the  King's  guests  go  up,  we  fol- 
lowed after  them. 

Bang,  bang!  the  halberds  came  down  again  in 
another  salute.  I  looked  behind  to  see  who  was 
coming.  Nobody,  we  were  the  only  people  on 
the  stair. 

"  Can  that  be  for  you  ?  "  I  cried. 

"Oh,  no!"  laughed  Villegas.  "For  this," 
touching  the  decoration  he  wore,  "  or  possibly 
for  the  Director  of  the  Prado." 

We  entered  a  room  paved  with  marble,  ceiled 
with  porcelain,  hung  with  ivory  satin  embroidered 
in  gold.  It  was  filled  comfortably,  not  crowded. 
Many  of  the  uniforms  were  very  handsome;  some 
of  the  ladies  were  sumptuously  dressed,  with  beauti- 
ful jewels,  others  wore  very  simple  evening  gowns. 
In  Spain  you  cannot  judge  people  by  what  they 
wear;  they  dare  to  be  poor  here  as  nowhere  else. 


390      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

The  King  and  Queen  were  receiving  the  Ambas- 
sadors in  the  Salon  de  Embaj adores.  This  we 
could  not  see  at  the  time.  Later  in  the  evening 
we  went  in  and  admired  the  superb  throne  with 
its  four  steps  guarded  by  big  gilt  lions,  the  rock 
crystal  and  silver  chandeliers,  the  painted  ceiling 
by  Tiepolo,  representing  the  "  Majesty  of  Spain." 
Standing  under  this  picture,  the  King  said  to  one 
of  the  Ambassadors: 

"  Well,  here  I  am,  you  see.  I  came  very  near 
not  being  with  you  to-night!  " 

A  little  later  the  King  and  Queen  made  the 
tour  of  the  apartments  leading  from  the  throne 
rooms.  The  crowd  here  was  so  great  that  we 
could  see  nothing  but  two  lines  of  people  bowing 
and  curtseying  as  the  royal  cortege  passed  down 
the  middle. 

"  Come,"  said  Villegas,  "  you  can  see  nothing 
here."  He  led  us  through  hall  after  hall.  I 
caught  glimpses  of  a  marble  room  and  a  porcelain 
room,  of  cabinets  filled  with  precious  pictures, 
sculpture  and  bric-a-brac.  We  halted  in  a  per- 
fectly empty  gallery  hung  with  the  most  astonish- 
ing tapestries. 

"  Flemish,"  said  Villegas,  "  but  unlike  any  others 
ever  made  in  Flanders.  Mire,  they  are  worked 
with  silver  and  gold  thread." 

While  we  were  looking  at  the  wonderful  tapestries. 


WEDDING  GUESTS  391 

and  puzzling  out  the  subjects,  Isabel  and  Larz 
Anderson  came  into  the  room.  We  were  all 
studying  the  tapestry  representing  the  "  Con- 
quest of  Tunis  "  when  we  heard  voices,  and  sud- 
denly, without  a  moment's  warning,  the  royal 
party  entered  the  gallery.  The  King  and  Queen 
walked  first.  Don  Alfonzo  wore  a  white  broad- 
cloth uniform.  The  Queen  looked  charming; 
there  was  no  trace  of  what  she  had  endured  in  her 
radiant  complexion  or  her  calm  blue  eyes.  She 
wore  white  satin  brocaded  with  little  pink  and 
blue  velvet  flowers,  and  on  her  head  the  new  dia- 
mond crown  made  especially  for  her,  Engracia 
had  told  us  about.  It  was  small,  of  the  real  classic 
shape,  like  the  crown  of  the  queen  in  Walter 
Crane's  picture  book. 

The  King  and  Queen  both  bowed  and  smiled  to 
the  Andersons  and  ourselves.  Then  Don  Al- 
fonzo, recognizing  the  Maestro,  waved  his  hand 
and  cried  out  in  a  cheery  genial  voice: 

"  Ai  Villegas,  com'  esia  V.?  " 

Queen  Maria  Cristina,  who  was  walking  next, 
stopped,  called  Villegas,  and  gave  him  her  hand. 
The  Infanta  Isabel,  the  Infanta  Eulalia,  and  the 
Infanta  Maria  Teresa,  all  stopped  and  spoke  to  him. 
The  tall  Swedish  Crown  Prince  followed  suit,  and 
the  Russian  Grand  Duke  Vladimir,  who  seemed 
overjoyed  at  seeing  him,  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 


392      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

When  the  royal  cortege  swept  out  of  the  room,  I 
was  breathless  with  surprise  and  excitement. 

"  They  all  seem  to  know  you,"  I  cried.  "  What 
is  the  bond  between  you  and  the  Russian  Grand 
Duke?" 

"  Quien  sdbe?  "  said  Villegas.  "  He  has  been 
at  my  studio;  and  the  Czar  once  bought  a  picture 
of  mine." 

That  reminded  me  of  the  portrait  of  the  King. 
I  persuaded  Villegas  to  take  me  to  the  room  where 
it  hangs  —  and  holds  its  own  —  among  the  other 
royal  portraits. 


XVII 
HASTA  OTRA  VISTA 

"  A  RE  you  painting?"  Don  Luis,  the  Valencian, 
JL\*  put  his  head  into  the  studio.  "  Am  I  too 
early  ?  The  fandango  is  to-day,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Adelantel  "  cried  Villegas,  "  the  ladies  have 
come.  Imperio  will  be  here  soon.  I  am  only 
preparing  my  work  for  to-morrow."  He  stood 
before  a  new  canvas  making  a  charcoal  drawing 
of  Angoscia. 

"  He  cannot  waste  five  minutes!  "  sighed  Lucia. 

"  It  seems  that  we  are  either  working,  or  getting 
ready  to  work,  day  and  night.  Where  does  life 
come  in  ?  "  asked  Don  Luis. 

'  Turn  the  head  this  way,"  said  Villegas  to  the 
model.  "  Hold  the  guitar  better  —  so."  Then 
to  Don  Luis :  '  To  those  accustomed  to  work, 
work  is  life." 

"  I  have  noticed,"  said  the  Argentine,  who  came 
in  at  that  moment  with  Patsy,  "  that  only  working 
people  know  how  to  play.  That's  the  reason 
artists  play  so  much  better  than  the  rest  of  us." 


394      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  What  did  you  see  in  Barcelona  that  made  up 
for  missing  the  fetes  ?  "  I  asked  the  Argentine. 

"  A  woman  clerk  who  sold  me  a  railroad  ticket. 
A  butcher's  shop  where  the  meat  was  cut  up  and 
sold  by  women/*  he  answered. 

There  were  cries  of  protest  from  all  the  party. 
"  That's  going  a  little  too  far  if  you  will,  "  the  Ar- 
gentine acknowledged;  "  but  it's  a  sign  of  progress 
—  things  will  adjust  themselves.  I  saw  the  ca- 
thedral too;  that's  a  joy  forever.  I  hardly  knew 
the  old  city  —  expensive  buildings  are  springing  up 
everywhere  in  the  art  nouveau  style,  pandemo- 
nium in  stone,  an  echo  of  the  *  greenery-yallery 
Grosvenor  Gallery '  nonsense,  the  tag  end  of  the 
*  aesthetic*  movement.  Big  granite  buildings  with 
window  frames,  whole  fa9ades  even,  carved  into 
flowers.  Lilies,  poppies,  what  you  like.  No  more 
idea  of  architecture,  of  style,  of  subordinating 
parts  to  the  whole,  than  —  than " 

"  That  comes  of  progressive  republican  ideas," 
growled  Don  Luis;  for  once  our  cheerful  Valencian 
was  out  of  sorts. 

"  You  have  no  sympathy  with  them  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Frankly,  I  have  never  had  time  to  occupy  my- 
self with  such  matters,"  Don  Luis  confessed.  "  I 
don't  know  if  a  Republic  is  good  for  the  arts  or  not. 
The  Republicans  I  know  are  all  barbarians.  They 
come  to  the  Prado;  I  hear  them  say  to  the  guides, 


2 
- 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  395 

'  Are  these  dingy  old  pictures  all  you  have  to  show  ?  ' 
I  once  took  a  Chilian  to  Rome.  When  he  saw  the 
Sistine  Chapel  he  was  furious.  *  Why  do  the  writers 
deceive  us  ?  '  he  said,  '  we  have  better  chapels  in 
Valparaiso/  Suppose  Don  Alfonzo  should  order 
a  hundred  portraits  of  himself  —  people  might 
laugh  but  nobody  could  stop  him.  If  the  President 
of  the  Argentine  ordered  twenty,  or  five,  or  even 
one  portrait  of  himself,  and  paid  for  it  out  of  the 
public  money,  would  you  reelect  him  ?  " 

"  Art  is  a  luxury,"  the  Argentine  began. 

"  Ah,  there's  your  mistake,  it's  a  prime  necessity, 
it  is  the  great  civilizer!  "  Don  Luis  was  roused. 
"  North  Americans  are  not  so  ignorant  of  art  as 
South  Americans,"  he  added,  remembering  there 
were  two  present.  "They  are  the  great  buyers 
now.  Villegas'  Baptisimo  is  in  New  York,  and 
now  his  Dogaressa  has  gone  to  Washington." 

Here  Patsy  plunged  into  the  talk  and  reminded 
Don  Luis  of  the  Age  of  Phidias,  the  painters  of  the 
Dutch  and  Venetian  Republics.  The  great  periods 
of  art  had  little  to  do  with  the  form  of  government 
under  which  they  flourished.  Art  was  a  rare  and 
wonderful  flowering  of  the  human  intelligence,  the 
fairest  flower  on  the  tree  of  life.  It  depended  on 
the  development  of  the  race,  not  the  will  of  the 
ruler. 

"  That  may  be,"  said  the  Argentine,  "  but  if  we 


396      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

are  ever  again  to  have  a  great  art,  the  artist  must 
be  protected,  his  trade  must  be  taken  as  seriously 
as  the  baker's  or  the  plumber's.  If  art  is  the  fine 
flower  of  civilization,  it  must  in  its  very  nature  be 
the  costliest  of  products  —  so  to  most  people  it 
seems  a  luxury." 

"  Is  religion  a  luxury,  is  poetry  a  luxury  ?  Is 
anything  that  lifts  the  ideals,  or  stimulates  the 
imagination  a  luxury  ?  "  cried  Don  Luis,  passion- 
ately. 

The  old  arguments  were  brought  forward  and 
threshed  out,  the  discussion  became  heated;  mean- 
while Villegas  worked  on  steadily.  On  the  flat 
bare  canvas  a  dim  foreshadowing  of  what  would  be 
Angoscia's  perfect  face  grew  and  grew  under  his 
hands.  While  the  others  talked  about  art  he  was 
at  work  upon  his  latest  masterpiece,  the  portrait  of 
Angoscia.* 

This  was  our  last  visit  to  the  dear  studio  in  the 
Pasaje  del  Alhambra,  where  for  six  months  J.  had 
worked,  where  we  had  all  been  so  happy  together. 
Our  stay  in  Madrid  was  drawing  to  a  close;  we 
counted  the  hours  now  as  misers  count  gold. 

'  The  picture  the  Czar  bought  is  of  the  same 
subject  as  this,"  said  J.,  pointing  to  The  Death 
of  the  Matador. 

The  wounded  matador  lies  on  a  litter  in  the 

*The  picture  is  owned  by  Miss  Dorothy  Whitney  of  New  York. 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  397 

chapel  of  the  bull-ring.  An  old  priest  stands  at 
his  head,  reading  the  prayers  for  the  dying.  A 
group  of  gorgeously  dressed  bull-fighters  stand 
about  him,  their  eyes  fixed  on  their  comrade's 
pale  face.  At  the  back  of  the  picture  an  opening  in 
the  wall  gives  a  glimpse  of  the  crowded  arena, 
where  the  spectators  are  watching  the  great  game 
of  death,  unconscious  that  a  few  feet  away  one  of 
the  heroes  of  the  corrida  is  dying,  gored  to  death 
by  the  last  bull. 

While  I  was  looking  for  the  last  time  at  the  pic- 
ture, Don  Jaime  came  into  the  studio  with  a  stran- 
ger, an  immense  man,  deep  in  the  chest,  broad 
in  the  shoulders,  small  in  the  hips.  His  head  was 
scarred,  so  were  both  his  hands.  He  wore  his 
hair  brushed  down  on  his  forehead.  At  the  first 
glance  he  looked  like  a  priest,  at  the  second  like 
a  prize  fighter. 

"  Jaime  has  kept  his  word,"  whispered  J., 
"  that  is  —  the  most  famous  matador  in  the  world." 

'  That  is  something  I  have  seen  more  than  once," 
said  the  matador,  looking  at  the  picture.  "  In 
my  time  there  was  a  mass  before  every  corriday  when 
the  priests  carried  the  oils  of  the  extreme  unction 
in  procession.  I  stopped  that;  it  took  the  heart 
out  of  a  man." 

The  matador  came  nearer  the  picture,  studied 
it  carefully,  taking  now  the  attitude  of  one  figure, 


398      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

now  of  another.     "  Muy  bien!  "  he  said,  nodding 
his  great  head  in  approval. 

'  You  cannot  know,"  said  the  Argentine  to  me, 
"  how  good  that  picture  is.  No  one  who  is  not 
familiar  with  the  ways  of  torreros  can  know.  See 
the  one  who  crosses  himself,  and  bends  his  knee  — 
it  is  exactly  their  manner.  See  the  civil  guard  in 
the  corner  explaining  to  the  other  how  the  accident 
happened  —  look  at  his  hand,  it  tells  the  story." 

"  How  many  bulls  have  you  killed  ?  "  asked 
Patsy  of  the  matador. 

"  In  twenty-five  years  I  killed  three  thousand 
five  hundred  bulls." 

"  Were  you  ever  afraid  ?  " 

"  I  was  afraid  many,  many  times.  On  those 
occasions  I  never  put  my  faith  in  the  Virgin,  but 
rather  in  my  legs  and  ran  as  fast  as  I  could.  The 
bull,  however,  is  the  noblest  of  animals  and  the 
bravest.  He  never  makes  a  cowardly  attack  from 
behind;  he  is  so  frank!  He  is  terrible,  though;  a 
man  needs  nerve  to  face  him  when  he  comes  into 
the  ring  pawing  the  earth  and  bellowing." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  about  the  bull  that  was  the 
hardest  of  all  to  kill  ?  "  asked  Patsy. 

The  matador's  face  changed:  "  He  was  a  white 
bull,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  and  he  didn't  want  to 
fight.  When  he  first  came  in,  he  put  his  muzzle 
in  my  hand.  He  followed  me  about  like  a  little 


0 

Q 

IS 


w 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  399 

dog.  I  led  him  with  the  cloak  wherever  I  wanted 
him  to  go.  Yes,  that  was  the  hardest  bull  of  all 
to  kill." 

J.,  who  had  been  looking  at  the  matador  ever 
since  he  came  into  the  studio,  nodded  his  head 
as  if  satisfied. 

"  He's  the  man,"  he  said.  "  I  had  forgotten  the 
name;  I  remember  the  face.  I  saw  you  kill  a  bull 
in  Cadiz  once.  I  wonder  if  you  remember  it? 
The  bull  put  his  head  down  to  charge,  and  you  put 
your  foot  between  his  horns,  stepped  on  his  head, 
ran  along  his  back  and  jumped  down  behind." 

"  Ah,  that  happened  at  Cadiz  ?  No,  I  don't  re- 
member. The  Cadiz  audience  is  the  best  in 
Spain,  the  most  intelligent,  the  most  sympathetic; 
it  has  the  best  knowledge  of  the  art.  It  is  not  like 
the  Madrid  audience,  that  must  sit  in  judgment  and 
criticise.  The  American  audience  is  good,  es- 
pecially the  Mexican.  Yes,  the  Americans  have  a 
real  understanding  of  the  art." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  wounded  ?  "  asked  Patsy. 

"  Often;  twice  badly.  Once  I  spent  three 
months  in  bed;  that  was  not  amusing,  I  can  tell 
you.  The  bull's  horn  went  through  my  thigh 
and  wrenched  the  muscles  apart.  I  recovered 
though.  The  wound  of  the  bull's  horn  is  a  good 
wound;  one  either  recovers  from  it, or  dies  quickly." 

"  Have  you  any  scholars  ?  "  asked  Patsy. 


400      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  No,"  sighed  the  matador.  "  My  art  is  one 
that  does  not  allow  of  disciples.  A  man  cannot  be 
trained  to  it  if  he  has  not  the  gift.  It  is  an  in- 
spiration, like  poetry."  He  sighed.  "  It  is  five 
years  since  I  retired.  It  seems  twenty-five." 

He  was  silent  a  few  minutes,  looking  down  as  if 
distressed;  then  he  brushed  back  his  hair  with  a 
spirited  gesture  and  glanced  again  at  the  picture. 

"  Most  of  us  end  that  way,"  he  confessed.  "  I 
have  escaped  to  become  an  alderman  and  interest 
myself  in  the  hygiene  of  the  city  that  once  criticised 
me!  "  Then  to  Villegas:  "  It  was  kind  of  you  to 
ask  me  to  see  Pastora  Imperio;  I  have  not  seen 
her  since  she  was  a  child.  Her  father  used  to  make 
my  professional  clothes.  They  tell  me  she  is  a 
great  dancer." 

Villegas  had  arranged  that  Imperio  should  dance 
for  us  at  the  studio.  The  others  had  seen  her 
often  and  were  never  tired  of  talking  about  her. 

*  Until  I  saw  Imperio  dance,"  said  Patsy,  "  it 
was  always  a  mystery  to  me  why  Herod  had  John 
the  Baptist's  head  cut  off  to  satisfy  the  whim  of  a 
dancing  girl.  Now  I  quite  understand  it." 

While  they  were  discussing  her,  Imperio  walked 
into  the  studio  with  her  mother,  followed  by  her 
brother  Dionisio  and  another  youth,  each  carrying 
a  guitar;  behind  them  came  attendant  nymphs 
with  sisters  or  mothers,  the  inevitable  chorus  that 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  401 

keeps  time  with  hand  clapping,  foot  patting,  and 
encourages  the  performance  with  cries  of  olle,  olle, 
and  andar. 

The  two  studios  had  been  made  miraculously 
neat  and  tidy.  They  smelled  of  turpentine  and 
beeswax.  Gil  and  Cisera  had  been  at  work  half 
the  day  preparing  for  the  fandango.  They  had 
spread  two  tables  in  the  inner  studio  where  J. 
worked ;  one  with  tea  and  cake  for  us,  the  other  with 
sandwiches,  sliced  sausages,  and  manzanilla,  a 
thin,  white  wine,  for  the  performers. 

First  we  had  songs;  the  curious  long-drawn 
chanted  wailing  songs  of  Andalusia  that  have  more 
of  the  East  than  of  the  West  in  them.  To  our  ears 
they  were  a  trifle  monotonous  but  to  the  Spaniards, 
to  the  Andalusians  especially  they  were  tre- 
mendously moving.  Dionisio,  a  strange-looking 
youth  of  eighteen,  with  odd  slate-colored  eyes  and 
a  lovelv  smile,  threw  back  his  head  and  wailed  out 

• 

couplet  after  couplet. 

"  This  I  tell  to  you;  to  see  my  mother,  I  would 
give  the  finger  from  my  hand  —  but  the  finger  I 
need  the  most  to  use. 

"  My  stepmother  beat  me  because  I  prayed  for  my 
mother;  my  father  turned  me  out  of  doors.  Where 
can  I  go  to  be  a  little  warm  ?  " 


402      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

There  was  a  shadow  walked  behind  me.  It  was 
the  spirit  of  my  mother.  It  said  to  me,  "  to  give 
thee  life,  I  gave  my  life." 

"  Ay  de  mil  "  cried  Imperio  and  shivered. 

"  I  am  in  prison  on  account  of  a  bad  woman. 
Tell  the  jailer  when  I  am  dead  not  to  unbar  the 
door,  for  even  dead,  I  would  not  see  her." 

"Virgin!  "  sighed  Dionisio's  mother. 

Imperio  repeated  the  words  slowly  to  me,  line 
by  line.  I  can  see  her  now!  her  burning  green 
eyes  fixed  on  mine,  her  face  that  made  all  the  other 
faces  seem  expressionless  in  comparison.  She 
was  at  once  immortally  young  and  immemorially 
old.  Her  face  was  young,  the  spirit  that  looked 
from  those  marvellous  eyes  was  immemorially 
old.  The  grace  of  her  wild  chaste  dance  is  world 
old  and  has  come  down  from  the  ages.  I  despair  of 
making  any  one  imagine  her!  Small,  lithe,  grace- 
ful as  a  young  tigress  from  the  jungle,  now  laughing 
like  a  child,  now  brooding  like  the  world  spirit. 

When  I  could  not  understand  what  she  said  she 
was  furious ;  —  I  must  have  had  a  bad  teacher, 
she  herself  would  teach  me  Spanish.  When  she 
arrived  with  her  mother  she  was  demurely  dressed 
in  a  pretty  white  frock  like  any  other  young  An- 
daluz.  Her  short,  thick  black  hair  was  curiously 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  403 

arranged  in  curls  on  either  side  of  her  face,  held  in 
place  by  tortoise-shell  combs  set  with  turquoises. 
I  gave  her  a  pair  of  crimson  peonies  I  had  bought 
from  the  old  flower  woman  at  the  corner.  These 
evidently  decided  the  color  of  her  dress.  After  a 
while  she  disappeared  behind  the  vast  canvas 
of  the  Death  of  the  Matador,  that  takes  up  the 
whole  end  of  the  studio,  and  from  this  improvised 
dressing  room  she  soon  reappeared  in  a  scarlet 
moreen  skirt,  and  a  manton  de  Manila  draped 
gracefully  a  la  maya,  about  her  lithe  figure.  She 
had  stuck  the  peonies  in  the  curls  on  either  side  of 
her  pale  face. 

Dionisio  and  the  other  lad  began  to  play  a  strange 
droning,  wailing  chant;  the  chorus  clapped  hands 
keeping  time.  Imperio  sat  watching  till  she  caught 
the  right  rhythm,  then  she  sprang  to  the  dance, 
the  castanets  on  her  fingers.  What  it  all  meant,  I 
cannot  begin  to  tell.  It  seemed  the  primitive 
expression  of  the  joy,  the  pain,  the  mystery  of  life. 
As  she  made  "  the  charm  of  woven  passes,"  like 
Vivian  —  only  Vivian  was  bad,  this  child  was 
virginal  and  pure  —  the  combs  dropped  out,  the 
short,  black  hair  clung  about  her  face  and  neck, 
the  color  surged  to  her  cheeks;  she  seemed  as  one 
filled  with  the  divine  fury  of  the  dance;  a  pythoness, 
a  Bacchic  priestess,  might  have  looked  like  this. 
We  had  seen  in  Granada,  in  the  Gypsy  King's 


404      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

cave,  somewhat  similar  dances  given  by  very  old 
women  and  little  girls  of  ten  or  eleven.  These  were 
as  the  past  and  the  future.  Imperio  made  the  dance 
part  of  a  glowing,  splendid,  breathless  present. 
Life  called  to  life,  the  life  blood  in  our  veins  danced 
in  time  with  those  wonderful  gestures  of  arms,  of 
feet,  of  the  whole  perfect  body  of  the  creature. 
I  believe  she  drew  power  from  us,  that  it  was  all 
give  and  take.  She  gave  us  youth  and  the  dance, 
the  dance  which  is  the  natural  expression  of  the 
lust  of  life;  and  we  gave  her  the  elixir  of  our 
sympathy.  Suddenly  she  stopped  and  broke  forth 
into  song  —  singing  a  long  panegyric  of  Seville : — 

"  Ay  Sevillia,  la  poblacion  mas  hermosa  del  mundo 
emtiero,  la  ciudad  que  yo  amo  mas  que  mi  madre." 

Ah  Seville  town  the  most  delightful  in  the  entire 
world,  city  that  I  love  better  than  my  mother. 

The  flexibility  of  her  body  was  unbelievable. 
I  can  see  now  the  little,  little  hands  held  over  her 
wild  head,  the  fingers  snapping  rhythmically,  for 
the  castanets  were  soon  thrown  away  and  her 
fingers  themselves  marked  the  measure  to  which 
she  danced;  the  impatient  tapping  of  the  feet,  the 
wild  leaps  in  air  when  she  seemed  to  grow  taller,  to 
tower  above  us  and  her  own  original  self,  and 
finally  the  abandon  of  her  last  pose,  the  final 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  405 

attitude;  the  head  thrown  back,  the  red  lips  parted, 
the  gasping  breath  coming  from  between  the  small 
perfect  teeth,  the  left  arm  down,  the  right  arm 
thrown  above  her  head,  her  whole  body  quivering 
with  the  ecstacy  of  the  dance  —  it  was  worth  coming 
to  Spain  —  just  to  see  one  of  Pastora  Imperio's 
poses ! 

"  I  have  never  seen  dance  any  gel  as  Imperio," 
Jaime  exclaimed.  "More  gracious,  great  spirit 
in  her  figure  (he  meant  face)  always  smiling!  " 

'  There's  something  half  dramatic,  half  religious 
about  this,"  said  Patsy  — "  like  David's  dancing 
before  the  Ark  or  like  the  Pyrric  dance,  don't  you 
think?" 

"  Maybe,"  Don  Jaime  agreed,  "  I  have  not 
seen  La  Davide,  nor  the  other  dancer,  LaPyrrique, 
you  speak  of.  In  Spain  the  dance  is  according  to 
the  region;  in  Madrid,  the  madrilena,  in  Seville 
the  sevilliana,  in  La  Mancha  the  manchego, 
and  so  on.  The  base  of  all  our  Spanish  dances 
is  oriental;  this  is  rather  correct,  any  lady  may 
see  it.  Imperio  dances  with  the  entirety  of  the 
corpe.  The  French  dance  with  toes,  feet,  and 
legs  only." 

*  Who  taught  you  to  dance  ?  "  I  asked  Im- 
perio, "  your  mother,  was  it  not  ?  " 

;*  Nobody!  "  she  exclaimed  proudly.  "  I  have 
danced  since  I  was  eight  years  old." 


406       SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

"  She  see  her  mother  dance  every  day  since 
she  were  born.  She  imitate  her  dancing  as  her 
walking,  but  do  not  know  —  each  of  them  have 
their  own  manner." 

"  That  dance  is  as  old  as  Eve,"  said  the  Argen- 
tine, "  Imperio  adds  the  sum  of  her  own  per- 
sonality to  it,  and  it  is  new  again." 

"  Will  Imperio  dance  to-night?  "I  asked. 

"  Always  at  the  Kiirsaal  after  middlenight," 
said  the  Don.  "  How  a  pity  you  cannot  go  Missis. 
There  are  some  French  and  English  performers 
would  not  please  ladies." 

"  Ask  her  to  tell  you  about  her  doll,"  said 
Villegas;  "  her  mother  says  that  she  still  plays 
with  it  on  rainy  days  when  she  has  to  stay  at 
home." 

"  Don't  you  think  Imperio  dances  better  in  the 
studio  than  in  the  Kiirsaal  ?  "  Patsy  asked. 

"  Clarol "  the  mother  smiled  and  agreed  with 
him. 

"  Natural,"  said  Villegas,  "  we  are  all  Sevilliani, 
born  in  the  same  parish,  baptised  from  the  same 
font  in  the  cathedral.  When  I  first  came  to 
Madrid  —  to  copy  Velasquez  —  I  was  just  sixteen 
years  old  then  —  Imperious  mother  was  the  first 
dancer  in  Spain.  How  is  it  ?  Have  you  forgotten 
the  dance  you  gave  before  Queen  Isabel  at  the 
palace  ?  " 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  407 

The  grave,  fat,  middle-aged  woman  said  she 
remembered  something  of  the  dance. 

"  Well,  show  us  how  it  went." 

"  Yes,  little  mama,"  said  Imperio  kindly, 
"  show  us  how  you  danced  before  the  Queen." 

The  old  dancer  rose  with  a  curious  action 
springing  with  one  step  from  her  chair  to  the  first 
position  of  the  dance.  Then  with  a  noble  solem- 
nity she  danced  the  same  dances,  only  not  with  the 
same  spirit  as  Imperio;  that  would  have  been 
incongruous.  She  danced  with  the  most  mag- 
nificent and  splendid  dignity  as  became  the  mother 
of  a  family.  Patsy  was  right,  so  might  David  have 
danced  before  the  Ark.  Little  saucy  Imperio  sat 
by  and  encouraged. 

;*  Viva  tu  madre,  olle  oUel "  she  cried,  clapping 
lier  little  hands. 

Dionisio  nodded  kindly  to  his  mother,  looking  at 
her  with  eyes  that  were  her  very  own.  The  gentle 
mother,  so  long  relegated  to  the  second  place, 
danced  and  rejoiced  in  the  tardy  attention  and 
applause  of  the  company. 

"  Isn't  it  time  for  refreshments  ?  "  asked  Patsy. 
"  They  all  look  as  if  they  needed  something  to  eat." 
We  adjourned  to  the  inner  studio  where  the  dancers 
and  musicians  fell  upon  the  good  things  with  the 
appetite  of  demigods  and  heros.  Imperio  seeing 
that  I  was  not  eating  anything,  came  across  the 


408      SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

room  holding  between  a  small  thumb  and  finger 
a  thin  slice  of  sausage  which  she  offered  me,  which 
I  made  out  to  eat. 

Don  Jaime  seemed  in  a  dream,  he  had  felt  the 
dance    deeply;    Patsy    tapped    on    the    shoulder. 
'  Wake  up,"  he  said,  "  have  you  forgotten  where 
you  are  ?  " 

"  It  is  like  the  lotus,"  sighed  the  Don,  "  it  make 
you  forget  all  the  world." 

Imperio  had  changed  her  dress  again;  the 
fandango,  the  very  best  fiesta  of  all  we  saw  in 
Spain,  was  over. 

"  Show  us  my  portrait,  Maestro,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  a  veiled  picture  on  an  easel. 

Villegas  threw  back  the  curtain  and  showed  us  a 
second  Imperio  standing  with  one  hand  raised 
above  her  head,  one  held  behind  her  back,  a 
red  matador  hat  upon  her  short  curls,  the  emerald 
fire  in  her  eyes.  Patsy  stared  at  the  picture, 
then  at  Imperio,  once  more  a  demure  child  in  a 
white  frock  as  she  was  when  she  came  into  the 
studio,  save  for  an  added  touch  of  color  in  her 
cheeks. 

"  To  the  life!  "  cried  Patsy. 

Villegas   rubbed   his   fingers  over   the   canvas; 

*  It  needs  a  little  scraping  down,"  he  said,  "  a 

little  repainting,  the  color  is  too  thick.     It  is  like 

her,  yes?     Quien  sabel     She  is  different  from  the 


IMPEKIO.     V  Mega* 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  409 

rest.  When  she  falls  in  love  and  marries  she  will 
be  like  the  others.  You  have  seen,  I  have  tried  to 
paint  the  first  dancer  of  Spain  in  her  flower." 
Then  he  went  with  the  dancers  to  the  door. 

"  Villegas  says,"  Patsy  quoted  him,  "  'that  an 
artist  should  leave  behind  him  a  true  picture  of  his 
own  time ;  that  he  should  be  like  a  phonograph, 
preserving  the  character  of  his  own  period  to 
posterity.  The  matador  and  the  dancing  girl  are 
two  of  the  most  characteristic  figures  of  the  Spain 
of  his  day;  he  has  painted  both  supremely  well: 
he  seems  to  be  doing  the  thing  he  set  out  to  do !' ' 

All  too  soon  after  the  fiesta  came  the  day  we  had 
fixed  to  leave  Madrid.  Not  till  then  did  I  realize 
the  strength  of  the  spell  Spain  had  laid  upon  me. 
We  were  going  to  Rome  —  even  that  could  not 
console  me  —  for  the  spell  of  Spain,  so  dark,  so 
noble,  so  tremendous,  is  not  to  be  shaken  off  once 
you  have  yielded  to  it. 

The  promise  the  child  made  so  lightly,  "  to  see 
Spain,  and  tell  the  other  children  what  it  is  like," 
has  yet  to  be  kept.  I  did  not  begin  to  see  Spain, 
I  have  told  but  a  halting  story  of  what  I  did  see. 
It  was  enough  to  make  me  love  Spain,  to  love  the 
Spaniards.  They  are  more  like  us  Anglo-Saxons 
than  any  people  I  have  lived  among.  Villegas 
says,  "  In  every  one  of  us  Spaniards  there  is  a 


410  SUN  AND  SHADOW  IN  SPAIN 

Sancho  Panza,  and  a  Don  Quixote."  That  is  as 
true  of  us  as  it  is  of  them. 

Several  of  our  friends  came  to  the  station  to  see 
us  off  as  is  the  pleasant  custom  of  a  land  where 
people  are  rich,  because  they  have  time  to  be  kind. 
Lucia,  hospitable  to  the  last,  came  followed  by 
Gil  carrying  a  great  net  basket  with  a  roast  capon, 
some  torrones,  and  a  bottle  of  Valdepenas.  Engra- 
cia,  the  lovely  soft-eyed,  willful  beauty  of  Madrid, 
brought  us  chocolates  from  Paris,  a  characteristic 
gift,  for  she  is  a  true  Cosmopolitan :  mi  paisano, 
Robert  Mason  Winthrop,  Secretary  of  the  American 
Legation,  who  had  been  endlessly  kind  and  added 
in  a  thousand  ways  to  the  interest  of  our  life  in 
Madrid,  brought  a  bunch  of  wonderful  Spanish 
carnations. 

Don  Jaime  and  Patsy  were  both  more  cast  down 
at  parting  than  either  wished  the  other  to  realize. 

"  Come  and  see  us  in  America,  Don,"  said 
Patsy,  "  We  will  give  you  the  time  of  your  life." 

"  Though  I  would  like  to  take  another  climate," 
said  the  Don,  "  I  have  not  the  dinero  fresco,  fresh 
money  as  you  say.  I  have  not  the  habitude  to 
spend  very  mooch  to  voyage;  I  could  not  justificate 
the  emprize  at  present." 

"  Where  is  Villegas  ?  "  asked  J. 

"  There  he  comes,"  said  little  Don  Luis,  the 
Valencian,  "  bearing  the  flowers  of  San  Jose"." 


HASTA  OTRA  VISTA  411 

Villegas  was  hurrying  along  the  platform  with 
a  great  sheaf  of  annunciation  lilies  in  his  arms. 

"  Adios,  adwSy"  we  cried  from  the  window  as 
the  train  began  to  move. 

"  No,  no!  "  came  a  cordial  chorus  from  the 
platform. 

"  Hasta  otra  vista." 


BOOKS   BY   MAUD    HOWE 

ROMA  BEATA 

Letters  from  the  Eternal  City 

With  illustrations  from  drawings  by  John  Elliott  and 

from  photographs.     8vo.     Cloth,  gilt  top 

in  box,  $2.50  net 

No  aspect  of  the  Roman  kaleidoscope  escaped  her  notice,  and 
for  the  Pope  and  peasant  her  comprehension  and  sympathies  were 
alike  quick  and  ready.  —  Boston  Herald. 

This  is  a  clever  book,  and  an  engaging  one.  The  author  has 
observed  Italians  and  Italian  life  with  an  intelligence  no  less  sym- 
pathetic than  acute.  By  temperament  as  well  as  by  training  she 
was  fitted  to  appreciate  the  glamour  of  Italy  —  that  embodied 
romance  of  nature,  art,  and  history.  In  these  sketches,  marked 
by  humor,  discrimination,  and  womanly  grace  and  gentleness,  she 
does  much  to  draw  the  reader  under  the  spell  which  she  herself  has 
felt  so  deeply.  —  New  York  Tribune. 

Sparkles  with  humor  and  runs  over  with  unique  and  entertaining 
experiences  such  as  could  not  possibly  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  ordinary 
tourist.  A  dozen  illustrations,  from  Mr.  Elliott's  drawings  and 
from  photographs,  add  a  decorative  touch  to  this  tempting  volume. 
—  Dial,  Chicago. 

TWO  IN  ITALY 

With  six  full- page  illustrations  from  drawings  by  John 

Elliott.     Crown  8vo.     Cloth,  gilt  top 

in  box,  $8.00  net 

A  book  of  delightful  rambling  sketches  of  Italian  life.  There 
is  hardly  another  American  so  capable  of  interpreting  Italian  life 
and  character.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

The  stories  are  full  of  humor  and  color,  picturesque  bits  of  real 
life,  touched  by  a  skilful  hand.  —  Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

Not  since  the  publication  of  Howell's  "  Venetian  Days  "  have 
we  had  books  by  an  American  so  full  of  Italian  sunshine  and  so 
soft  with  Italian  atmosphere  as  are  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Elliott  — 
Chicago  Interior. 

LITTLE,   BROWN,  &  Co.,  Publishers,  BOSTON 


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A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


I 


Book  Slip-35m-9,'62(D2218s4)428(i 


College 
Library 

DP 


UCLA-College  Library 

DP  42  E46s 


L  005  684  663  7 


